The Bloodforged (15 page)

“A fruitful one, it would seem. Your ruse was successful. I'm told the destruction of the bridge is quite the boon to our cause.”

“That it is. But it could have gone very differently.” It
would
have gone differently if he'd been wrong, and Sadik hadn't been expecting them at the bridge. But Sadik
had
been expecting them. He'd known of Rig's plans, or at least part of them, and that could only mean one thing.

Vel looked over at him, a half smile pulling at her lips. “Why, General, is that what you're doing in this dark corner by yourself? Brooding?”

“I wouldn't call it brooding. I'm thinking.”

“About what comes next?”

“I know what comes next.”

“Nothing good, judging from your tone.”

He shrugged. “We won a victory today. It bought us—what, a week? Threw a wheel off Sadik's wagon? It won't be enough. He'll find a way to get those siege engines across the river. I would.”

Vel gave him a funny look. “I believe you would, General.”

“It all comes down to how many lives we're prepared to spend on that crossing. Him to take it, and me to keep it.”

“Does it bother you, all this death? Your part in it?”

He shrugged again. “One day, maybe. Right now, I don't have the luxury. What's that saying—when the winter is done, the birds will flock home? It'll come back on me eventually. Maybe I'll be one of those tortured old men who can't sleep for the nightmares. But not now. I'm too busy worrying about the living to dwell on the dead.”

Across the room, Morris was regaling the men with a tale—a meandering, slurring version of the time he and Rig led a few hundred Blackswords against a much larger Oridian host, only to find themselves coming to the rescue of another outnumbered force (
the sodding
King of Alden
, that's who
) and routing the enemy in the bargain. A bit of an exaggeration, and every man
in the room had doubtless heard the tale a dozen times by now, but they listened raptly all the same. As for Rig, his mind wandered, hazy with drink and spent battle frenzy.

“Sadik is not as fearsome as you think,” the priestess said at length.

“No? He didn't become the Warlord by being passably capable. He's not like the other Trions. He wasn't born into his place, or appointed by his peers. He
earned
it. He had to kill for it.”

“What difference does that make? It's not as though you have to face him in single combat.”

“He's a clever bastard too,” Rig muttered, almost to himself.

“You tricked him.”

“This time, but he won't fall for it again. And that trap he laid for us was brilliant. If we hadn't been expecting it . . .” Rig shook his head; it didn't bear thinking about. “His men appeared out of nowhere, dressed in forest colours with mud spread all over their faces. I've seen that before, in the Broken Mountains, but I've never seen a conventional army use tactics like that.”

“Except yours.”

He turned, his eyes meeting hers. “Not for a long time,” he said carefully.
And I've never talked openly about those tactics with anyone.
Even Morris's drunken tales never made mention of details like that. It wasn't exactly a secret, but it wasn't the sort of information that just fell into one's lap, either. “You're very well informed, Daughter.”

She looked away. Brought a cup of wine to her lips.

“It was you,” Rig said, the truth dawning on him even as he spoke. “You're the one who read up on the battles.” He couldn't deny it—he was impressed.

It must have come through in his tone, because she flushed with pleasure. “Commander Wright and I studied together. He admires you greatly, you know. Though,” she laughed, “he was not very happy with you today.”

Rig grinned. “I do regret that, but it couldn't be helped.”

“It was amusing to see him after the battle. So angry, so thrilled, practically shaking with it. He couldn't tell if he wanted to kiss you or hit you. Both, I think.”

“I have that effect on people.”

“I readily believe that, General.” Her mouth curved into a teasing little bow, the sort of look that sent a man's imagination on flights of fancy.

Is she doing that on purpose?
Most likely, Rig decided. She was baiting him again, trying to shock him with her forward behaviour. He considered her: those clever dark eyes, that coy look, so intent on knocking him off balance. “Why are you here, Daughter?”

“What, here? In this room?”

“Here in Alden. At the front. Why subject yourself to fear and ridicule just to minister to some soldiers? You could do that back in Onnan City. Then you wouldn't have to hide in a dark corner with me.”

That seductive smile again. “Perhaps I like being in dark corners with you.”

“If you want to flirt with me, Daughter, you're most welcome, but it won't get you out of answering my questions.”

Her expression closed down. “I don't owe you answers, General,” she said coolly, looking away.

“Fair enough.” He started to rise.

She clucked her tongue impatiently. “But you are a
contrary
man. Do you really wish to know?”

“I do.”

“Then I'll tell you, but if it sounds foolishly romantic to you, I'll thank you to keep that to yourself.”

The idea of the waspish priestess of Eldora being
foolishly romantic
struck Rig as highly improbable, but he kept that to himself. He leaned back against the wall and gestured for her to proceed.

“Have you ever heard of
Zan and Adra
?” When Rig shook his head, she continued, “It's one of our most famous tales, dating back to the time of the Erromanian Empire. Zan was a slave and a freedom fighter. A foot soldier at first, but over the course of the tale, he rises through the ranks of the rebellion to become one of its leaders. Adra is his wife. She stays behind in his village, raises his children, finds ways of getting supplies and messages to her husband and the rebels.” Vel made a dismissive gesture. “It ends tragically, of course. Zan is caught and tortured. Adra must soldier on, as it were, without
her husband. The rebellion does what it can for her, but eventually she dies of grief.”

“Heartwarming story.”

“We have many such tales, as you can imagine.
Bar of the Seas
, have you heard that one?”

“Can't say I have.” Rig was starting to feel a little awkward. He knew a few legends from Harram, and from Andithyri of course, but his tutors had not seen fit to teach him anything of the folklore of the former slaves, an omission he hadn't noticed until now. He had an idea what Vel would say about that.

Fortunately, she was too caught up in her tale. “About something other than the empire and slavery, for once. Bar goes on a long sea voyage, leaving his wife and children behind. He's on a quest to find the lost island of Tarsin and its fabled waters of everlasting life. If he succeeds and brings the waters back with him, he can save Onnan from hunger and disease. Yila—that's the wife—does everything she can to keep his household and business healthy while he's gone. Another tragic ending, with Bar and his crew going down in a storm.” Vel looked at him, arched an eyebrow. “Do you see the common theme, General?”

“Sure. Man goes off to do great deeds, woman stays at home to mind the fire.”

When she spoke again, her voice was low and vehement. “I will not simply mind the fire while my countrymen die for me and mine. I have something to contribute, even if it is not a blade or a bow, and I will do it at the front lines, just like Commander Wright.”

“Commendable.”

Vel's eyes narrowed sharply. “Are you mocking me again?”

Rig laughed. “Put your stinger away, Daughter. No one's mocking you. I said it was commendable and I meant it.”

“Then let me do more,” she said, leaning forward intently. “Let me get in touch with the Resistance.”

Rig looked at her. Scratched his beard. Gods, he was almost tempted to do it. They needed the Resistance working with them, now more than ever. The fleet would take too long, the Harrami even longer. He needed help now, or they weren't going to make it.
Therein lies the problem.
The Resistance was too important. An underground movement of Andithyrians
working behind enemy lines to undermine their conquerors . . . having them as allies would be an incredible boon. Rig would get only one chance to make that happen, and if he failed, the Resistance would go deeper into hiding—or worse, fall into the hands of the enemy. Rig needed to be absolutely certain that whomever he entrusted with this was up to the task. Vel was smart, and she was determined, but could he trust her?
After what happened today . . .

“I've heard you, Vel,” he said, using her name to soften the words, “but I'm not ready just yet.”

“Take your time, General,” she said coldly, rising. “I'm sure Sadik will wait.”

He sighed as he watched her go, hoping he hadn't just made an enemy. The gods knew he had enough of those already, on both sides of the border. For all Rig knew, he had enemies right here in the fort.

One thing was for sure: He had at least one spy.

E
rik dropped a pine bough at his feet and reached for another. He was dimly aware that his shoulder ached, that the fingers of his gloves were glued together with sap, but his task was not yet done. He paused a moment to catch his breath. Then he put the dulling edge of his dagger to green wood and began to saw. He worked blankly, mechanically. The cool hush of the mountains filled his ears, scouring the landscape of his thoughts and chasing the shadows into corners. Branches piled up at his feet. His breath bloomed in steady pulses of vapour. He knew nothing else.

When he deemed he had enough, Erik put his dagger away and gathered the pine boughs in his arms. He carried them to
the pit fire, arranging them as close to its heat as he dared, one atop the other in a loosely woven pattern. He pushed down on them to test their depth; satisfied they would provide enough of a barrier against the chill of the ground, he turned to the bundle of furs beside him.

“Alix.” She didn't stir right away. Erik shook her gently. “Alix, let's get you onto the mat.” Still nothing. Swallowing, his heart skipping unpleasantly, Erik pulled off his glove and touched her forehead.
Better
, he decided, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. The sweat matting her hair showed that the fever had not yet broken. The cool hush of his mind was fading away, shadows rolling in like fog over a lake.

Alix's eyelids fluttered open. She focused on him, hazel eyes scanning his features. A weak smile pulled at her lips. “Liam.”

He wilted a little. “No, Alix, it's—”

She reached up and touched his face, her fingers sliding into his hair.

Erik shivered against a toxic brew of emotions, worry and guilt and an unmistakable twinge of longing. He slipped his arms under her and gathered her against him. “
Shh.
Never mind. Go back to sleep.” Easing her onto the pine boughs, he arranged the furs around her. Then he found a reason to be on the other side of the camp.

A short while later, Kerta returned from her hunt. “Any luck?” Erik asked her.

She hefted a limp rabbit by way of answer. “There were two of them, but I couldn't get another arrow off in time. I'm sorry, sire.”

“Don't be absurd. A rabbit is a great victory compared to squirrel.”

She did her best to smile. “You know, it wasn't as bad as I thought. A bit sinewy, perhaps.”

The guardsman Alfred eyed the rabbit hungrily. The poor man had been on watch for hours now and looked even more exhausted than the rest of them. There was no help for it, though; with a scout moving out ahead and another at their rear, he was the only one left to guard the camp.

Kerta cocked her chin at the slumbering form across the fire. “How is she?”

“Better, I think, but still confused. She . . . mistook me for Liam.” The words surprised him; he hadn't meant to say them.

Kerta knew it. She saw it all, Erik realised; he could tell by the pitying look that came over her. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“It's just not a good sign,” he returned briskly. “I'd hoped we were past this.”
I'd hoped I was past this.

“I can't understand how it came back like that,” Kerta said, “and so suddenly. She seemed to be over it, and then . . .”

“The stress, I suppose.”

Kerta drew her knife, readying to dress the rabbit. “I just wish there were something more we could do.”

“She'll be fine.”

“I know, but . . .”
But she's slowing us down.
Kerta would never say it out loud, but she didn't have to. They all knew it. And they all knew the consequences of delay. The longer they lingered in this gods-forsaken pass, the more likely they were to be discovered. Meanwhile, Erik had no way of knowing what was happening back home, how close they were to losing the war. For all he knew, it was already over, his friends dead, his kingdom conquered . . .

The familiar panic began to well up inside him, but he tamped it down ruthlessly. “One more day ought to do it,” he said. “Then hopefully we can pick up the pace.”

“Farika willing.”

Erik did not join her in the prayer. He was not feeling terribly close to the gods at the moment.

They made a quiet, modest meal of the rabbit. Erik tried to get Alix to eat some, but of course she would not. Frida came in from the rear guard to join them. Of her fellow scout, Leola, there was no sign.

“I'm sure she's just late,” Kerta said with her usual optimism.

But when nearly dark gave way to fully dark, and still no sign, it was clear the missing scout was not merely late. Something was wrong.

“We can't risk going after her,” Erik said. “There isn't enough moonlight to see by, and we don't dare light a torch. Whatever has befallen Leola, we can't help her until dawn. Hopefully, she has simply lost her way.” He did not believe that for a moment, of course. More likely, the scout had been injured
somehow, fallen on loose rock or melting snow. Perhaps she had met a bear, or a panther, or something else that forced her up a tree or out of her way.

There was another possibility, of course, by no means the least likely, but Erik did not care to think on it. Not that it mattered what he cared to think on. His mind was through taking orders from him today; it explored whatever dark corners it liked.

He fell asleep, as he had nearly every night, to the image of a tribal warrior standing over him, face smeared with concealing mud, sword curved like the sickle of a too-dark moon.

*   *   *

Dawn found Erik
upright, well armed, and giving orders.

“Alfred, you stay behind and keep watch on Alix. If she wakes, try to get her to eat something. Kerta and Frida, you're with me. If Leola is out there, we'll find her.”
Unless someone else found her first.

Were their situation any less dangerous, he would have left the missing scout behind, however reluctantly. Time was too precious, their task too desperate, to risk falling even further behind. But he could ill afford to lose another man. It was worth looking for her, if only briefly. “She would know better than to go chasing after someone on her own, wouldn't she?” Erik asked as they walked.

“Oh yes, Your Majesty,” Kerta assured him with wide-eyed earnestness. “That would be completely against protocol!”

Alix would do it
, Erik thought. She
had
done it, nearly getting herself and Liam killed in the process. Thankfully, most of the scouts had cooler heads.

When they reached the place where Leola should have been posted, and still no sign of her, they agreed to split up. Kerta headed up the slope, Frida down. Erik kept on straight, bloodbow in hand, eyes scanning the trees for any sign of . . . anything.

His boots scraped noisily against loose rock, or so it seemed to him. Unlike the scouts, he had not been trained for stealth. He had no skill at tracking, or climbing trees, or half a hundred other things that seemed like terrible oversights now. If his bowstring had not been boiled in his own blood, he doubted he
would even be much of a shot. He was as out of place here, he reflected, as his brother was in the halls of the Republicana.
Perhaps Liam was right after all. Perhaps he should be here, and I there.
Liam was a trained scout, and a good one, according to the late Arran Green. He would be better at this. Better at taking care of Alix, too.

The thought brought a fresh twinge of pain. When she'd reached for him, her fingers twining in his hair . . .
Like a bittersweet memory.

Erik cursed himself quietly. The thought was a betrayal. So many of his thoughts felt like betrayals, especially lately. His mind, usually so disciplined, was a tumult of doubt and guilt. Anxiety scratched at him like a cat at the chamber door.

He paused. A stone in the path lay at an odd angle, a dark band of moisture marking the place where it had once been buried in moss. It did not take a tracker to understand what that meant. Someone had passed through here recently, though whether man or beast, he could not tell. He crouched, listening to the whisper of the pines, scanning the slope above and below.

There.
A scar in the moss on the slope below, glistening black, as though a boot heel had scraped it aside. Erik made his way carefully down, arrow to bowstring, every sense alert. He saw more of what might have been tracks, but he could not be sure; the snow had only recently melted, leaving the undergrowth crushed and wet.

A raven cackled to his left. Looking up, Erik's heart sank. Half a dozen of the vile creatures perched in a single budding poplar, and when he took a step toward them, several more took flight from the undergrowth. Certain now what he would find, Erik made his way over.

It was a grisly sight. The scout was half eaten, torn open from navel to neck. Her entrails lay strewn about her, dragged there by the ravens. Her bow, in splinters, was still slung over her shoulder, and her knife was sheathed at her hip. Whatever had taken Leola had caught her completely by surprise. It looked as though the beast had made some effort to bury her, perhaps intending to come back to finish its meal. That, and the scarred bark on a nearby tree trunk, left little doubt as to what was responsible.

There was nothing to be done but chase off the ravens and try to cover the remains as best he could. That done, he started back up the slope.

“Erik.”

He swung, bow taut, to find Alix standing in the trees. Cursing, he lowered his weapon. “What in the Nine Domains are you—”

“You shouldn't be out here alone.” She looked like death walking, pale and tatty, shoulders drooping. Even so, she had still managed to sneak up on him without a sound.

“
I
shouldn't be out here? You shouldn't even be on your feet!”

“I didn't have much choice, since my king saw fit to wander off without me.”

Erik stared at her incredulously. After all this time, the woman still managed to astonish him. She wasn't just impudent; she was bloody
impossible
. “Alfred shouldn't have let you leave,” he growled, somewhat irrelevantly.

“I outrank him.” She scanned the brush around them. “You're looking for Leo, he said.”

“Not anymore.”

She started to ask a question, but then her brow smoothed, grim understanding coming into her eyes. “How?”

“Panther. Yesterday afternoon, by the look of things.”

She sighed. “Gods, that's awful.”

“Yes,” Erik agreed, “it was. But there's nothing to be done now. Let's get you back to camp.”

“I'm fine.”

“Obviously. That's why you keep rubbing your eyes. By the Virtues, Alix, would it kill you to be sensible for once?”

She scowled. “That's rich, coming from you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're the
king
, Erik. You can't be running off on rescue missions in the middle of enemy territory.”

“I'm not
running off
anywhere,” he said coolly. “It wasn't as though we had the luxury of sending someone else. In case you haven't noticed, we're a bit thin on the ground here.”

“Have I noticed we're in an impossible situation?” She made a furious, sweeping gesture. “Why yes, Erik, I have. We
shouldn't
be, but we are, and it's my duty to make sure we survive it, no
matter how ill I might be feeling. So when my king goes off into the woods alone, I'm obliged to follow.”

They glared at each other, standing there on a slope in the middle of nowhere. They rarely argued, and never like this. Erik found it strangely liberating. “You blame me for this, then? Is that it?”

Something drained from her eyes. “Of course not. It's just . . . I wish you didn't always have to take everything on your shoulders, yours and yours alone. You have a whole court, Erik. A council. Ambassadors. And yet here we are”—she gestured about them again, wearily this time—“in the Broken Mountains, being picked off one by one.”

“You think I want this?” He could hear something perilously close to a tremor in his voice. He could not remember the last time he had been this angry, this . . .
inflamed
. “Do you honestly believe I would have put myself through this if I saw any other choice? Don't you think I'm tired, so
gods-damned tired
, of doing what's necessary, instead of what I want?” He was vaguely aware of taking a different path now, of wandering away from where they had begun, called there by an irresistible song that had been echoing in his ears for what seemed like forever. If he was not careful, he would say something he could never take back, that would hang around their necks for the rest of their lives.

“Then why?” She closed the distance between them, utterly oblivious, gripping his shoulders and gazing searchingly into his eyes. It felt like falling. “Why do you do it?”

How do you always manage to be so good?
Her voice again, reaching across the void of time, dashing over him like cold water.

“Because I have to.” Turning away, Erik started back up the slope.

*   *   *

For a long
moment, Alix could only stand there, trembling, wondering what had just happened. She'd been insolent, lashing out in her fear and discomfort. That was, it pained her to admit, not unusual. But Erik's reaction . . . He was always so measured, so composed.
Almost always
, she amended. She'd
seen him this raw once before: on the day of the parley, when he'd confronted her about her relationship with Liam.

Liam.
Something tugged at her memory, too hazy to make out. Could that be it? Had she inadvertently reopened old wounds? She couldn't see how. “Erik,” she called, “please stop.”

He ignored her. In a few moments, he would disappear over the lip of the hill. Alix hurried after him—or at least, she tried to. Her head swam, and her mouth felt like something had laid eggs in it. She should never have come. She was no good to him in this state, no good to anyone until she recovered her strength. Dragging herself up the slope was like slogging through shin-deep mud.