The Bloodbound (15 page)

“Green!” Erik's voice, tinged with desperation.

“I'm coming!”

She could hear Erik struggling with his foe, cursing and grappling, his fury a surreal counterpoint to the dispassionate face looming above her. The Oridian's lifeless eyes seemed to grow, swallowing up her entire view until all she could see was a reflection of her own death. And then something crashed into them, knocking the weight off her. She gasped. A blade sang, heavy and wet. Alix rolled onto her side and found herself staring at a severed head, as expressionless in death as it had been in life. Some part of her registered Erik moving away from the corpse, but then blackness stole the edges of her sight. She lay still, trembling, coughing, while the fight went on around her.

For a moment, she lost track of everything but the burning in her lungs. And then, quite suddenly, the sounds of battle receded. Alix struggled to her feet, one hand wrapped gingerly around her throat. Erik and his knights were a good thirty feet away, and the Oridians seemed to be falling back.

Strange.

The Kingswords were supposed to herd the enemy northward, away from the hills, giving themselves space to retreat back into the valley. But the Oridians were moving west, meaning they'd been pressed from a second front—to the north, maybe, or the south. But how was that possible?

A few stray cheers went up from the surrounding Kingswords. Erik stood triumphant, his helm tucked under his arm, flush with victory and unexpected providence. Alix approached him on shaky legs. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I guess we're even now.”

“Not yet,” Erik said brightly. “I seem to recall something about you lying on top of me and stripping off my armour.” Beside him, poor young Rona blushed to the tops of her ears and beat a hasty retreat.

Alix snorted. “I should slap you.”

“Technically, that would be treason.”

Raibert Green appeared a moment later. He had a long gash on his jaw, just beneath the edge of his half helm, but it didn't look deep. “I'm glad to see you're both all right.” He took in Alix's face with an amused expression. “Why, Lady Alix, you look radiant. Blood is your colour.”

Alix swiped a hand across her cheek; it came away smeared with gore. She shook her head. “What is it about battle that turns sensible men into buffoons?”

“It rather depends on the outcome, I think,” Erik said, sobering. “I'm relieved you're all right, Alix. I don't know what the Trionate feeds its soldiers, but that
thing
that got hold of you was monstrous strong.”

“And determined,” she said, fingering her neck. “He was bleeding to death the entire time we were fighting, but he just kept coming. It was like he thought killing me would end the whole war . . .” She trailed off, shuddering.

Erik frowned into the distance. “And what happened to the Oridians? Not to sound ungrateful, but I don't understand why they turned tail and fled like that. Green, did you see what happened?”

“Another force took the field,” Raibert said, pointing north. “I saw some of them, and they didn't look like ours.”

“Then whose were they?”

Just then, Alix spotted one of them, a knight giving orders to his men. Dark, unruly hair spilled out beneath a helm she would have known anywhere, for she had seen it hanging above the mantel at Blackhold since birth.

“Rig!”

With a joyful cry, Alix flew into the arms of her brother.

“G
ods be praised.” Rig clutched her so tightly it hurt. “I didn't know if you were alive or dead.”

“Nor I you.” Alix shook violently, joy and relief crashing into blood already spiked with the rush of battle. She clung to Rig as if he were a stone in the tides, heedless of who might see her so undone.

“Hush,” he murmured, stroking her hair. His touch was her father's, and her mother's too. His voice was the sound of memory, and his skin the smell of home. Alix gave herself a moment to soak it in, feeling truly safe for the first time in months. Then she drew a deep, shuddering breath and released him.

Rig laughed, though his own eyes were shining. “Gods, you look a fright. Here.” He handed her a square of cloth to wipe away the blood and tears.

“You keep a handkerchief under your armour?”

“A true knight always keeps a handkerchief on hand.” When Alix gave him a sceptical look, he added, “Actually, it's a bandage, but let's keep that between us.”

She choked out something between a laugh and a sob. “Same old Rig.”

But that wasn't quite true. Rig looked different. Even through plate and mail, Alix could see that her brother was stronger, more rugged. His beard was long and scruffy, and his coal-black hair was almost to his shoulders. His eyes were coal too, hard and black, with a fierce gleam that hadn't been there before. She'd seen a similar change in Liam. She wondered if Rig could see it in her too.

“Riggard Black, you unconscionable laggard! Where have you been?”

Rig grinned as he turned to clasp arms with the king. “A fine greeting for the man who just saved your hide.”

“Rubbish! We were only toying with them. Isn't that right, Green?”

Raibert smiled indulgently. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

Erik clapped Rig's shoulder. “Bloody good to see you all the same. I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost.”

“Alas, you're not rid of me yet.”

Alix watched the exchange with a mixture of pride and bemusement. She'd always known that her brother and the king were friends; they were nearly the same age, and Father had made a point of taking Rig to Erroman often, to rub shoulders with his fellow heirs. But like all of Rig's dealings at court, his relationship with the king was something that took place a world away, beyond her ken or caring. She hadn't seen the two of them together since she was a child. It felt strange to listen to them talking to each other like brothers. Strange, and strangely satisfying.

Rig sobered quickly. “I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you well, Your Majesty.”

“I have your sister to thank for that,” Erik said. At Rig's puzzled look, he added, “We have much to discuss, but we can't do it here. We may have caught the Oridians unawares, but it won't take them long to realise they outnumber us. They'll be back, and we had best not be here when that happens. How many are you?”

“A little over six hundred.”

“Cavalry?”

“About half.”

“Good. We've a dire need for horses. Speaking of which . . .” Erik called for a squire.

Rig, meanwhile, turned to one of his knights, a man Alix didn't know. “Morris, tell the men to form up. We're getting out of here.”

Commander Morris nodded smartly. As he walked away, his squire raised the Black banner, crying, “Blackswords!”

“Not anymore,” Rig said. “We're Kingswords now.”

*   *   *

They left the
serious business until after the meal, as was proper. It was a tight fit in the king's pavilion. Erik sat at the centre of his table, flanked on either side by Lords Green and Brown. Across from him sat Alix, Rig, and Rona Brown. The servants had all they could do to squeeze between the table and the canvas walls, but somehow they managed. They kept the food hot and the wine flowing as Rig demonstrated his famous appetite for one and all. Alix shook her head as her brother helped himself to yet another plate of fruit. He'd been on the run for months, but still—manners were manners. Mother would have been appalled.

“We played cat and mouse for weeks,” Rig was saying, his dagger flashing as he carved the pit from his peach. “Every time we tried to come out of the marsh, the enemy was waiting for us. And then, all of a sudden, they weren't. We had no idea where they'd gone, but we didn't care—we jumped at the chance to get to high ground.”

“That must have been when Arran Green arrived with the Kingswords,” Erik said.

Rig bit a slice of peach off the tip of his knife. “I'd assumed it was you.”

“Alas, I wasn't able to ride at the time.”

“Oh?”

“Your sister broke my leg,” Erik said severely.

Alix
tsk
ed. “I was indirectly responsible for your leg being broken. Hardly the same thing.”

“Quibbling,” Erik said with a dismissive wave.

Rig gave them both a funny look, but did not otherwise comment. “Anyway, I thought about sending scouts to locate whoever was giving the enemy trouble, but I couldn't spare the men. I barely had enough to watch our flanks. I figured our armies would meet up sooner or later anyway. We laid low for a while, healing up and resupplying where we could. I even managed to recruit a few able bodies. And then the gods saw fit to strike the enemy stupid, and we pounced.”

Erik arched a red-gold eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“The Oridians have overstretched themselves. Their supply lines are exposed. We've been hitting at them relentlessly ever since they left the Scions. By the time they reach Brownhold, they'll be hungry and spent—if they get there at all.”

Erik leaned back in his chair, a wondering expression on his face. “Do you mean to tell me you've been pitting your six hundred against a host of four thousand? And succeeding? Remarkable!”

Rig sipped his wine. “It's a question of tactics. We're not strong enough to confront the enemy directly, but we've become quite adept at hit-and-run strikes—taking out their scouting parties, raiding their camps, targeting their supply lines, that sort of thing. Some of the men disapprove of such devices—they've got fool-headed ideas about glory and honour—but I'm no martyr. I do what I can with the resources at my disposal, and no more.”

“You're a hero, Lord Black,” Erik said. “Few men would show the courage and resourcefulness that you have. It seems to be in the blood.”

Alix smiled down at her plate. She could feel the king's eyes on her. And her brother's eyes on both of them.

“You certainly did us a great turn today,” said Green. “You've proved that even a small force can take the enemy by surprise and prompt him to do something rash. That is comforting, given how much our own strategy rests on that very assumption.”

“In theory, that's true,” Rig said, “though we got lucky today. We didn't come across many thralls. Most of them were probably in the vanguard.”

The others exchanged confused glances. “What's a thrall?” Erik asked.

“That's what we've been calling the bewitched fighters.” More puzzled looks. Taking in their expressions, Rig's mouth tightened grimly. “So you haven't faced one yet. In that case, I'm afraid I have some grave news, Your Majesty.” He put down his wine cup and pushed it away. “It seems the rumours about the Priest are true. He does wield some kind of dark power over his men, or some of them, at any rate. It lets him control them like puppets. Eeriest thing I've ever seen.”

Alix's supper churned in her belly. She thought she knew where this was going. So did Erik, judging by his sudden pallor.

“We can't prove it's the Priest,” Rig went on, “but I don't see any other explanation. These men are definitely under some kind of spell. They feel no pain, and no fear. You can wound them as many times as you like and it barely slows them down. Imagine fighting someone who puts no value on his own life. The conventional rules of swordplay just don't apply. All your training, your experience—useless. Worse than useless. If you try to anticipate them, you're dead. They strike when they ought to fall back, use the sword when they should use the shield. And it's all but impossible to incapacitate them. You can cut off an arm—it doesn't matter. You have to kill, and kill instantly, or they'll keep coming until one of you is dead.”

“The man who tried to choke me today,” Alix said quietly.

“Yes.” The king's eyes were chips of ice.

Rig sighed. “So you have seen one, then. I killed a thrall myself today. So far, they're not that common, but the men say they're turning up more and more.”

“But how is that possible?” Raibert Green looked half fearful, half disbelieving. “We've been hearing rumours about the Priest for years, but I've never put any stock in them. After all . . .
magic
? Who can credit that?”

“What about the bloodbond?” Rona Brown gestured to where her sword lay propped in a corner of the tent. “It turns an inert object into a part of your body, maybe even your soul. What is that if not magic?”

“Alchemy is not magic, my dear,” her father said. “It's mysterious, to be sure, but not supernatural.”

The young heiress frowned. “With respect, Father, alchemy is just another word for something we don't understand.”

“Magic or no,” said Green, “these thralls are real. I saw one with my own eyes. The man who attacked Alix had been hacked half to pieces, yet he did not even flinch. His Majesty had to lop off the thing's head before it was over.”

“What else can you tell us about them, Lord Black?” Erik asked.

“Nothing for the moment, except that we presume the Priest rides with that host. I've promised a thousand gold crowns and a title to any man who brings me his head.”

“A bargain at ten times the price, if all that you say is true.” Erik shook his head. “Soldiers who feel no fear or pain . . .”

“Gods preserve us,” Adelbard Brown muttered.

“They'd better,” Rig said. “One of those abominations is worth three ordinary soldiers on the field. If you thought we were outnumbered before . . .”

“And they still have their fifty thousand at the border, just waiting to swoop down on our carcasses,” Brown said. Alix's supper moved again, this time perilously close to her throat. The thought of their
carcasses
almost pushed her over the edge. “We're outnumbered and outflanked,” Brown continued, in case there was anyone at the table not yet contemplating his doom.

“Meaning Lord Black's raiding tactics are more important than ever,” Erik said. He paused, steepling his fingers. He was brewing an idea, Alix could tell. If he held to form, it would be more vision than detail, but that was well and proper for a king, as far as she was concerned. Let his lords and knights fill in the particulars. “If I were to allocate more men to your command, would it hamper your effectiveness?”

Rig considered. “I don't think we could conduct our style of operation with more than, say, eight hundred men. Half to strike, half in reserve in case things get ugly.”

“Eight hundred it is, then. You shall have two hundred of mine, along with my blessing and thanks for your continued efforts. We can discuss division of labour tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. And what are your plans?”

“We'll have to deal with my brother eventually, but for now, we will continue as you see us, buying time for the Greys to muster, and for General Green to clear out the Blacklands. When that is done, we'll be ready to march for Erroman.”

“And when you do, the Black banner shall be yours,” Rig said gravely.

Erik nodded. “I count on it.” He rose, and the lords did the same, bowing their heads before taking their leave. Alix hovered near the tent flap, intending to take her place outside, but Erik said, “Go, be with your brother. Commander Elan can watch my tent.”

Murmuring a heartfelt thanks, she slipped out into the night.

Rig was waiting for her. “Let's find someplace private to talk. I want to hear everything that's happened since you left Blackhold, and I doubt we'll have much chance later.”

“Down by the river,” she suggested.

The riverbank smelled of mud and moss and new spring leaves. Rig plonked himself down with his usual abandon, small stones scraping noisily beneath him. Alix sat beside him and drew her knees up under her chin. For a fleeting moment, it felt like they were children again, sitting on the banks of the Black River—before the fall of Blackhold, and the massacre at Boswyck. Before the war, and the Great Fever . . . before, before, before, when things were simple.

“So,” Rig said.

“So.”

“Things aren't going exactly the way we imagined, are they?”

“Not exactly.”

“I'm going to have a hell of a time marrying you off now.”

She smiled. “Because I'm the king's bodyguard, or because we're utterly ruined?”

“Either. Both. Gods only know when Erik is going to let you go. Not anytime soon, by the looks of it.”

“I'll bet I can still hook an Elderfir. Or a Stonegate, maybe.”

Rig sighed theatrically. “If only I had your lovely face. I think the best I could do at this point would be a Middlemarch.”

Alix laughed heartily at that, and it felt good. Prospective marriage matches had been a running joke with them since they were children. At first it was a means of deflecting their mother's constant machinations; later, a lighthearted way of coping with their declining prospects. It was comforting to slip back into the old routine, if only for a moment.

Then silence fell, and the shadows crept back in.

“Have you had any word of Blackhold?” she asked.

“No.” He stared out at the river, his strong features sketched in moonlight. His jaw formed a square line, and his heavy eyebrows sat dark and brooding. “It's killing me, Allie. To not even know if our home still stands . . . I failed our people, and I don't know how I can ever redeem myself as their lord.”