The Bloodforged (16 page)

She crested the hill to find him a good twenty paces up the path. Her shoulders sagged in defeat; she would never catch him now. Resignation opened the floodgates: Dizziness crashed over her, sending the world on a mad tilt. Grabbing hold of a tree, she clung there as spots chased one another across her vision.
Don't faint. Don't you dare faint . . .

And then strong arms were around her, steadying her. “I've got you. Here, sit down.”

“We can't . . . We have to keep moving . . .” In spite of her words, Alix slumped gratefully into his arms.

“In a moment. You need to sit.” Erik started to ease her down.

“I'm sorry . . .”

He sighed, a gentle breath in her ear. “You don't even know what you're sorry for, Alix.”

She started to reply, but a
snap
from the trees nearby drew her head sharply around. Her hand whipped up, demanding silence.

Erik eyed her warily, quietly shrugging his bloodbow off his shoulder. Alix scanned the shadows between the trees.
It's Kerta
, she thought.
Let it be Kerta.

An arrow whizzed over her left shoulder. Alix was moving before it had even buried itself in the tree trunk behind her; she threw herself at Erik, sending them both tumbling over the crest of the slope. The moment she'd stopped rolling, she gave Erik a hard shove. “Take cover!”

He obeyed, diving behind a tree, an arrow already nocked to his bow. “Tribesmen,” he growled, as though she needed to
be told. She'd seen the fletching on the arrow, the distinctive stripes of falcon feathers.

Fear lit up every nerve in Alix's body, sending a shock of strength through her limbs. She scrambled behind a tree and drew her bloodblade, though it would do her little good at range. Not for the first time, she cursed herself for not taking Nevyn up on his offer to prepare a bloodforged dagger for her. She could have thrown it with deadly accuracy; instead, she faced the prospect of charging an unknown number of archers.

She held her breath, listening. Erik shifted behind his tree, trying to peer through the branches for a glimpse of their attacker. Wind sighed through the pines, but all else was still. “Go,” Alix whispered. “I'll cover you.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “With what?”

“I'll think of something.”

“I'm not leaving you, Alix.” As if to emphasise the point, he drew back on his bowstring, though he still didn't have a target in sight.

Alix cursed under her breath. There was no point in arguing. Erik had many kingly instincts, but self-preservation was not among them. “Stay here, then.” Lowering herself onto her belly, she started to worm her way along the slope on elbows and knees. If she could outflank them, come up from behind . . .

Then what?
She had no idea how many there might be. Even if she could get the drop on one of them, a second would take her out easily. But what choice did she have? Erik wouldn't retreat, not without her, and she was in no condition to outrun anyone. So she pressed on, crawling as silently as she could through the undergrowth, praying for a miracle.

The air hissed, twice in rapid succession. An exchange of arrows. Alix propped herself on her elbows, hoping for some sign of the enemy archer. A moment later, Erik took another shot, loosing a shaft into a dense cluster of pines about a hundred feet up the slope. Alix pointed herself toward it, creeping forward with agonising slowness, pausing every few feet like a cat stalking its prey.

She'd covered half the distance when a rustle in the undergrowth drew her head up. She could see something, a bit of brown moving between the trees a few feet away. She waited, head swimming, pulse hammering in her ears.

The brown thing shifted. An elbow, drawing back on a bow. Alix gauged the distance.
Ten strides. Maybe less.
Cold sweat trickled down her temple. She could feel the surge of strength ebbing away as the shock wore off. The fever was closing in on her again; any moment now, it would pounce.
Ten strides
, she told herself.
You can do this.
She tensed, breathed a silent prayer, and sprang.

She didn't make a sound—she would have sworn it before the gods themselves. Yet somehow, the archer sensed her coming; he turned, bow drawn, the point of his arrow glinting in the sun. Alix's heart froze in her chest, as though it could hide.

A stinging pain pricked the back of her neck. She ignored it, letting her momentum carry her through the undergrowth. For some reason, the archer hadn't fired; instead he just stood there, watching her barrel through the brush toward him.

She didn't make it. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, and suddenly her legs wouldn't carry her another step. She fell at the archer's feet; her sword tumbled from clumsy fingers. The tribesman loomed over her, dark and alien and terrifying. He sneered at her before turning away as though she were of no consequence.

The back of her neck burned; instinctively, Alix reached up to touch it. Her fingers brushed feathers.
An arrow
, she thought.
They've shot me . . .
But no, this was too small to be an arrow, and anyway, she'd be dead.

She heard movement behind her. She tried to turn, but her body wouldn't obey. She tried to call out to Erik, to tell him to run, but her jaw had seized shut. Darkness crowded her vision.
Poison.
She'd felt this once before, she realised groggily, on a distant battlefield in the midst of a siege . . .

A voice cried out. Erik. He sounded as if he were a half a hundred miles away . . .

Alix pitched forward onto her hands, onto her face, into blackness.

T
he spy found him alone on the balcony, breathing the salt air.

Rudi sprang at the rose window, scrabbling and barking with such ferocity that Liam actually jumped. Just a little, mind.

“Your dog . . .” The spy drew back a step. “He is secured?” Liam didn't blame him for asking. The wolfhound looked absolutely terrifying through the warped prism of the stained glass, like some kind of mythical monster.

“Let's hope so. I'm not sure which of us he'd go for, frankly.”

The spy didn't find that comforting; his hand strayed to the rail. “Why do you keep him, if that's so?”

“Long story.” Liam crossed his arms, a move that coincidentally positioned his hand just above the dagger in his belt. After the spy's last visit, Liam had vowed never to be caught unarmed again. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm here to escort you to your meeting, Your Highness.”

He arched an eyebrow. “What meeting?”

“You may recall, Your Highness, that you asked me to arrange a meeting with one of the secret societies.”

That was days ago; Liam had assumed it wasn't going to happen. “You actually managed it, then?”

“I am humbled by your confidence,” the spy said dryly.

“No offence, I just thought it would be more difficult. I mean, they're
secret
and all.”

“With respect, Your Highness, you have no idea what it took for me to arrange this meeting.”

Liam supposed that was true. Indeed, the fact that it had taken several days did suggest a certain amount of fuss had
gone into it. “You didn't have to threaten anyone, I hope?”
Or worse?
Liam wished he'd thought to ask before, when it might have made a difference.

The spy shrugged him off. “All you need know is that the Shield has agreed to hear you this evening, at their lair.”

Lair.
Why did they have to make it sound like some fetid cave where a scaly beast perched atop a pile of human bones, picking meat from its teeth with an elegantly curved claw? The Onnani, Liam decided, were awfully dramatic. “Let me wake my officers and we'll go.”

The spy shook his head. “Just you.”

“Worth a try, anyway,” Liam muttered.

“The dagger, Your Highness. You must leave it behind.”

Liam opened his mouth. Closed it. Scowled. “Fine, but if I get killed on this little outing, I'm going to be quite put out.”

The spy was unmoved.

“Just let me put it inside.” He squeezed through the door, driving Rudi back with his knee. For once, he was glad of the wolfhound's presence; it gave him an excuse to close the door behind him. As soon as he was out of sight, he tucked the dagger into his boot. He recalled the spy saying something to the effect that carrying arms into the den of a secret society would be the end of him, but he decided that was just more drama. Probably.

“All right,” he said, slipping back out. “Let's go.”

The spy disappeared over the rail. Liam peered after him, decided the drop wasn't too bad, and climbed up. He felt ridiculous, like a squire sneaking out of the barracks after curfew. (He'd done that precisely once. Arran Green had
not
been amused.) Sitting atop the rail, one leg dangling over into the night, Liam looked down again. Seen from this angle, the slope below didn't look quite so benign, but there was no help for it; he jumped.

He hit the ground with an ungodly racket, scrabbled to his feet with ungainly haste, and brushed himself off. He glanced around him, as though searching for his dignity.

“This way, Your Highness.” The voice carried just a hint of dryness.

Liam followed the spy through the woods at the back of the garden. The wall at the foot of the property was rough stone, which Liam scaled easily enough to soothe his pride. After that, there were more gardens, and more walls, all the way down to
the city. It wasn't until they reached the old battlements that they set foot on a proper street.

“Here,” the spy said, tossing a cloak at Liam. “Put this on, with the hood up.”

Liam complied, even though the wool smelled like a wet dog had slept on it following a spot of grave robbing.

“This way.”

They headed toward the gate. Liam tensed when he saw the guards, but the spy just nodded at them, and they passed without a word. Which wasn't much comfort, really.
This place really is a viper's nest
, he thought.

The spy led him into an alley and said, “Stop.” The light from the street barely reached them here; only the man's mouth and chin were visible within the hood. “Do not be alarmed, Your Highness.”

Something stirred behind him. Liam was fixing to be properly alarmed when he felt the swatch of fabric go over his eyes. “Oh, come
on
. A blindfold? Is that really necessary?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

There followed an absurd interlude of fumbling blindly through the alley, after which there was a very long wagon ride, followed by still more blind fumbling. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Liam was led up some steps, and he heard a door open. The sound of his boots went from flat to echoing, and a crack of light appeared at the bottom of his blindfold.
Thank Farika.
They were finally here.

He was escorted down a long corridor and through a heavy set of doors. The air seemed cooler here, and the sound of the sea washed over him.
Outside?
But no—his footfalls still echoed, albeit differently.

The hands guiding him pulled him to a halt. Footsteps withdrew. Liam stood there in the dark, not daring to speak or even to remove the blindfold. A gentle, salt-scoured breeze tousled his hair. He could feel eyes upon him, as if from every direction at once, but he could hear nothing. He had never felt so alone, so vulnerable, in all his life.

“You may remove the blindfold, Your Highness.”

Haltingly, Liam reached up and pulled it free. For a moment, all he could do was blink in the searing glow of torchlight. He was in some sort of chamber, but when he glanced up, stars
pricked the darkness above. Columns stretched up from the four corners of the room as if to support a ceiling, but there was none; instead, they reached into the sky like ancient trees. As his eyes adjusted, Liam found himself at the centre of a ring of figures, all of them robed and masked, but not in the raiment of priests. The masks they wore were similar to Olan's, but instead of a silver disk, they were black, as glossy as mirrors. Onyx, maybe, or jet. The torchlight rippled liquid orange on their shining surfaces. The figures behind were still, silent, utterly inscrutable.

“Hi,” said Liam.

“We apologise for the means by which you were brought here,” said a voice as smooth and dark as the masks. “We rarely entertain outsiders.”

“I appreciate you making an exception.” Liam couldn't help glancing around, taking in the robed figures surrounding him. Somewhere among them, he supposed, was Irtok, but he didn't know the chairman well enough to identify him by build alone.

“An exception, yes,” said the same voice, “and not lightly made. Why did you wish to see us, Your Highness?”

Right. So much for the pleasantries.
Liam cleared his throat. “Well, I assume you know why I'm here. In Onnan City, I mean.”

“We know why you're here.” A hint of impatience in the voice now.

“Then you know how important the Onnani fleet is to the war effort. I am commander of the White Wolves. A soldier, in command of an elite battalion of soldiers. We should be at the front right now, protecting home and hearth. Instead, I'm here, trying to find out why a fleet that should already be at sea is still at least three months from completion.”

“And what makes you think the brothers of the Shield can help you answer this question?” A new voice this time, a thicker accent.

Liam steeled himself. He was fairly certain his next statement wasn't going to go over well, but there was nothing for it—he had to put his cards on the table. “The fact is, I've already learned the answer. It turned out to be fairly simple: It's sabotage.”

He'd expected murmuring. Shouting, even. What he got was silence, torchlight flickering off the glassy black surface of shield-shaped masks.

“What I don't know is
why
it's happening, or who's behind it. I'm hoping men of your stature can help me find out.”

“How shall we do that?” asked a third voice.

Liam scowled. It was like a bad game of volley. Wasn't
he
supposed to be the one asking the questions? “I was told that the Shield had a finger in every pie around here. If that's not true, tell me now, and I'll stop wasting your time. But if it is true, then you probably have a good idea who's behind this thing.”

Orange light glinted off the masks as they looked at one another. Sibilant whispers carried across the room. After a brief discussion, the masks turned back to Liam.

“We are sorry, Your Highness.” The first voice again, sounding about as sorry as if he'd accidentally deliberately stepped on Liam's foot. “We would like very much to help you, but we cannot tell you what you wish to know.”

Liam felt his jaw twitch in anger. “Can't, or won't?”

“Very well. We
won't
.”

“Why in the Nine bloody Domains not?”

He knew the moment he said it he'd made a mistake. The robed figures stiffened, and a palpable chill descended over the room. “I will thank you not to blaspheme in this hallowed chamber, Your Highness.”

Of course. Half these men were probably priests. “Sorry,” Liam said, cursing inwardly. “I meant no offence.”

After a suitably reproachful silence, the voice continued. “Rest assured that the man responsible for this evil deed will be punished. But he is Onnani, and must face Onnani justice.”

Liam felt his scowl returning. “Why hasn't he, then? What are you waiting for?”

“We were not certain of his crimes until you arrived. But your presence has spurred various parties into action, some of them rash, thereby shedding light on the matter.”

The spy had mentioned something similar, Liam recalled, about his presence stirring the pot. Still, there was something that didn't smell right about this. It was all a bit . . .
fishy
.

There, he'd said it—if only in his head.

Aloud, he said, “Why would anyone do something like this? Doesn't he realise that hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake? Aldenian
and
Onnani?”

“Desperate men do desperate things, Your Highness. The
Trionate of Oridia is the wealthiest nation in Gedona. Their gold would go a long way to restoring the fortune of a man who has lost it all.”

“That is enough, I think,” said another voice, gently admonishing. One black mask turned to another, as if enjoining silence. “We have no more to say on the matter, Your Highness. We wish you a pleasant evening, and may Olan be your sign.”

Liam stood there, powerless, listening to footfalls approach from behind. They'd make him put the blindfold back on, escort him out of here whether he liked it or not. “Do I at least have your word?” he asked, hating how desperate he sounded. “You will stop this man, whoever he is?”

“We will do what is possible within the confines of the law,” said a voice that might have been Irtok's.

And then there was a hand on his arm, a dismissal as clear as the one he'd been given at the Republicana. Liam's blood spiked; for a dangerous moment, he almost resisted. But his better sense prevailed, and he allowed himself to be led, blindfolded and helpless, out of that roofless hall and into the night.

*   *   *

They left him
at the foot of the road leading up to Bayview. There was no sign of the spy; Liam wondered if he'd ever see the man again. Olan shone like a beacon at the top of the hill, as though beckoning him home. The sight left him cold and embittered.

Onnani justice.
If there was any justice to be had, whoever was responsible for sabotaging the fleet would be drawn and quartered, or pinned to one of those horrid devices the Erromanians had devised.

That was his first thought, anyway. Then he found himself squirming at the uncomfortable, all-too-familiar image of an Onnani meeting his gruesome end on the points of some imperial torture device. That was extreme, he decided. But still—the miserable cur should be made to
suffer
. The idea that Alden could be conquered because of one man's lust for gold was more than he could bear. It didn't just make him angry; it made him
sick
.

Desperate men my arse.
From the way the Shield had spoken of him, this man had been rich once. Going from rich to
poor didn't make you desperate, not in any way Liam understood the word. It just meant you had to claw your way through life like everyone else.

His step faltered.

Hang on.

A formerly rich man who'd lost it all. Onnan was a small country, with a small elite. How many men could possibly fit that description? And he'd have to be connected too, wouldn't he? Just having a reason to destroy the fleet wouldn't be enough; he'd have to be in a position to make it happen. If he didn't have money, he'd need some other kind of leverage, or access, to do what he'd done. That narrowed the field even further, surely?

“I'm going to find you,” Liam murmured into the night. “I'm going to find you, and I'm going to drag you back to Erroman behind my horse.”

He found a new spring in his step as he made his way up the road. For the first time since he'd arrived here, he didn't feel completely lost.
Mostly
lost, maybe, but not completely. He had the scent now, at least. That was something, wasn't it?

The first thin rays of dawn crept into the sky. By their light, Liam saw a figure standing in the road. He took a few more steps, then knelt casually, as if to tie his laces. He'd been told the Ambassador District was safe after dark, but he was too much a soldier to take any chances. As he straightened, dagger tucked into his sleeve, he saw another man materialise from the shadows to stand with the first. He seemed to be clutching a cudgel of some kind.