The Bloodbound (2 page)

A
lix gasped and sat bolt upright. For a terrible moment, she saw only flame and shadow, her ears echoing with the screams of dying men. Slowly, the flames resolved into a single candle, and the shadows gathered into the shape of a tent. She was on a cot, something warm and heavy draped over her legs.

“
Gods' blood!
You scared the life out of me!”

The voice, only inches away, sent a bright arc of panic through her. Alix scrambled away from the sound. A silhouetted figure at her bedside raised a hand in a mollifying gesture. “It's all right, it's just me.”

“Liam!” Alix threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him as though her life depended on it.

“Oh. Er . . . okay.” After a moment of awkwardness, he relaxed, gathering her close. “It's all right,” he repeated gently, “it's over now.”

She drew away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just . . . I didn't expect to see you alive.”

Liam grinned. “At your service. Anytime, really.” He leaned in and looked over her shoulder. “I just hope you didn't pull your stitches.”

“I have stitches?” Alix twisted, and her question was answered by a sharp tug in her lower back. She hadn't even noticed the pain until now. When had she been wounded?

The memories flooded in like cold seawater into the hull of a sinking ship. Flashing steel. Vacant blue eyes. White war paint spattered with blood . . .

“The king!” she gasped. “Oh, gods, where is he?”

Liam's grin turned wry. “Don't tell me you've forgotten single-handedly rescuing the King of Alden?”

“I . . . that's not exactly how I remember it.” Alix brought a hand to her forehead, willing the pounding to subside. Liam handed her a cup of water, and she downed it gratefully.

“You should take it easy. The healers say it's a miracle you made if off the field. I'm not even supposed to be here, pestering you.” He lowered his voice, suddenly serious. “What happened out there, Allie?”

She smiled faintly. The only other person she had ever allowed to call her
Allie
was Rig. Liam had stumbled onto it, teasingly at first, and she hadn't objected. It was a small thing, but it comforted her somehow, a reminder of the brother she missed so terribly.
What I wouldn't give to have Rig here now.

“If you don't want to talk about it . . .”

“No, it's all right.” She paused, remembering. “After I lost you, all I could think was to fall back and regroup with the Kingswords. But I couldn't find more than a few pockets of them here and there. And then I saw the king. He was alone.” She glanced up suddenly, something occurring to her for the first time. “Green. Is he . . . ?”

“Alive. Pretty banged up, but he's seen worse.”

Alix nodded, relieved.

“How does a king end up alone on the battlefield?”

“I'm not sure. The enemy managed to take out his guard somehow. They drove him into the trees and cornered him. That's where I found him. We fought them off—barely—and then I had to carry him away. I walked for a long time before I found someone. I don't really remember what happened after that.”

“Gods, Allie.” Liam's eyes were round with awe. “That's . . . amazing.”

She winced. “Not so amazing. I almost got him killed.” When Liam raised a questioning eyebrow, she explained, “I pulled his horse down right on top of him. A destrier in full plate. Knocked him out cold.”

Liam stared. Then he burst out laughing. “I guess that explains the broken leg.”

Oh, dear gods.
Alix felt a flush creep into her cheeks. “It's not funny.”

He only laughed harder. “What a dashing rescue! Why, it's like something out of a bard's tale! I can picture it now: the brave heroine . . .”

“Bugger off, Liam.”

“The brave,
charming
heroine . . .”

“Liam.”

“What were you trying to do, anyway?”

She scowled. “There was an archer. I wanted to use the horse as cover, but I didn't count on the weight of the king's armour.”

Liam shook his head and dabbed at his eyes. “Good old Alix. Act first, think later.”

“I can't believe you're laughing about this. I broke the king's leg!”

“I'd say he's forgiven you.” Liam gestured at their surroundings. “You haven't even noticed where you are yet. It might not be Blackhold, but it's the army equivalent.”

Belatedly, Alix glanced around. The tent was huge, at least ten feet by twelve. A fur coverlet lay pooled at her waist, and she sat on a cot, a luxury she hadn't known since leaving the barracks months ago. “Generous of him.” She shifted awkwardly under the blanket. “How is he, anyway?”

Liam sobered. “All right, considering. They say he's got a pretty nasty break, and some bruised ribs, but he's up and about. And mad as a hornet.”

“The Kingswords . . .”

He dropped his gaze. “Massacred. Less than five thousand left, we think.”

“Merciful gods.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
This is war
, she told herself sternly. Still . . . so many dead . . . “How could this happen?”

“The Raven betrayed us, that's how.” Liam's eyes were steel, grey and hard and glinting with fury.

Alix blew out a long breath. Tomald White, commander of the Wolves and their prince—a traitor. He had left his own brother to die. “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he's in league with the enemy. Or maybe he's just a coward. Does it really matter?”

His words barely registered. “And how could the Pack just stand by and watch?”

“They didn't. Not all of them, anyway. When the Raven ordered them off the field, hundreds deserted to join Green and the rest.” Liam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Gwylim and Kerta are here in the camp somewhere. Ide too.”

“The Blackswords . . . how many of them survived?”

Liam shook his head. “I don't know. I'm sorry. There hasn't been time to take stock. We've been on the run ever since the retreat sounded, just trying to put distance between ourselves and the Oridians.”

“Where are we, anyway?”

“About fifty miles north of Teardrop Lake.”

Alix started. “How is that possible? How long have I been out?”

“A couple of days. They gave you something to help you sleep. Said you needed it.”

Her surprise quickly gave way to humiliation. A couple of days in the care of total strangers, being fed, tended, carted around, and gods knew what else . . . She paused, sniffing herself. Clean and fresh. Her eyes widened in horror. “Who's been bathing me?”

Liam laughed. “
This
is what you're worried about? Your modesty?”

“It wasn't you, was it?”

His laughter sputtered out instantly. “
What?
Don't be . . . of
course
not!” He rose quickly and cleared his throat. “Right, you should get some sleep. And I'll go and . . . not sleep. At all. Possibly ever again.” He rubbed his eyes.

Alix smiled, despite herself. Every once in a while, it was possible to reduce Liam to the shy squire he'd once been. Tempting as it was to tease him, however, she could already feel her eyelids drooping. She would have thought two straight days of sleep would be enough, but apparently her body had other ideas.

“Thanks for staying with me.” She yawned and slid down under the coverlet.

“No problem.” He paused at the tent flap, looking back at her. “I'm glad you're all right, Alix.”

“You too.”

Sleep claimed her.

*   *   *

Alix peeled back
the tent flap to reveal a brisk morning glittering with frost. A pale winter sun strained through the morning mist, washing the clearing in thin watercolours. The camp had not yet stirred; only a few soldiers milled about, carrying water, cleaning weapons, poking at the dying embers of cooking fires. It felt like any other morning, and for a moment, Alix just stood there, watching, some part of her praying that it had all been a bad dream. But of course she knew that wasn't true. She had woken up on a cot, in an unfamiliar tent, with a vile taste in her mouth and a subtle throb in the small of her back. The battle had been no nightmare—at least not the imaginary kind.

She let her gaze wander over the camp, taking a silent tally of the small canvas pyramids dotting the clearing.
So few
, she thought. Was this really all that remained of the king's army? They had been twenty thousand strong when they marched out of Erroman. Eight thousand of those had been Blackswords. Rig's men, and their father's before, men whose families had been loyal to the Blacks for generations.
Massacred
, Liam had said. Alix shuddered.

“Good to see you're up,” said a voice, and Alix turned to find Gwylim beside her, a steaming cup in his hand. He looked haggard, his green eyes clouded over, his hair tousled into an ash-blond briar patch. “How do you feel?”

“I ache,” Alix said, “inside and out.” Inside, especially.

“Well, if it's any consolation, you look awful.” He took a long pull of his tea.

“Thanks.”

“That's it?” He made a small noise of disapproval. “Those Oridians must have knocked the vinegar out of you.”

She looked at him askance. “You know, for such a short man, you're awfully brave.”

“That's more like it.”

Alix couldn't quite manage a smile. She gazed out over the tents. Gwylim drank his tea. Neither spoke for long moments. Alix longed to ask him about the battle, but she hesitated. Maybe he just wanted to forget. Gwylim and most of the other scouts had been sent with the Wolves, while Alix and Liam scouted for Green. Gwylim would have witnessed the horror up close, and it seemed unfair to make him relive it.

Yet in the end, she found she couldn't deny herself. “The Wolves,” she said quietly. “What happened? Did Prince Tomald . . . did he not hear the horn?” Some part of her still refused to believe their prince would betray them.

“He heard it. We all did. He just didn't order the charge.” Gwylim spoke matter-of-factly, but Alix didn't miss the way his fingers tensed around his cup, chasing the blood from his knuckles.

“What did you do?”

“Same as you. Ran down the hill and tried my best to get myself killed. Practically all the scouts did the same. Kerta and Ide and Nik.”

“Nik's here?” Liam hadn't mentioned him.

“No,” said Gwylim. He took another sip of tea.

It took Alix a moment to understand. When she did, her eyes squeezed shut. “Gods, I'm sorry. I know you were close.”

“Lots of good men died out there.” Gwylim avoided her gaze, continuing to stare out over the camp.

Something like nausea wrung Alix's stomach. How much of it was hunger, and how much horror, she couldn't tell. “So the White Wolves are disgraced,” she said, more to herself than Gwylim. “Traitors to their own banner.”

“The White Wolves don't exist.” Gwylim's voice was quiet but fierce. “Half of them deserted. As for those who stayed with Prince Tomald, who stood by as he betrayed his king . . . They're
his
men. The Raven's men. They're not the Pack. There is no Pack, not anymore.”

Alix had nothing to say to that, so she just nodded.

“The king named Arran Green commander general of his army,” Gwylim said. “Such as it is.”

Alix frowned. “What do you mean, such as it is? There's another twenty thousand swords in Erroman, and the Greyswords haven't even mustered yet.”

“And who's to say where their loyalties lie?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Gwylim glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You're the noblewoman here, Alix. You know more about politics than a nameless sod like me. Think about it. Prince Tomald has powerful allies, to say nothing of the White Wolves and the tens of thousands of other soldiers he's commanded over the years. He's riding back to Erroman right now, convinced that King Erik is dead and the crown is his, and there's no one there to disagree with him.”

“But the king
isn't
dead.”

“Right. So the question is, what happens now?”

Alix grew cold as she processed the implication of his words. If Tomald wanted the crown, he would find plenty of supporters, especially among the army—enough to mount a credible challenge to his brother's rule.
As though one war isn't enough
, she thought bitterly. “Gods help us.”

“The Virtues take no sides in the quarrels of men,” Gwylim said.

“Spoken like an almost-priest.” She gave him a wry look. “I'll bet you're asking yourself why you ever left.”

“And here I was just thinking how familiar it all is. The treachery, the ruthless ambition . . . All we're missing is the temple.”

A new voice spoke. “Merciful Nine, Gwylim, that's cynical, even for you.”

Alix's nose wrinkled at the sound. It was far too early in the morning for a dose of Kerta Middlemarch. Alix made a point of avoiding Kerta until at least the midday meal, in much the same way she avoided imbibing heaps of sugar before breakfast. But she was careful to smooth her face into an expression of cool politeness as she turned to exchange greetings with her comrade. Her breeding demanded no less, and she would be damned if she shamed her late parents in front of a Middlemarch.

“How are you feeling?” Kerta asked, her big blue eyes gazing up at Alix through a veil of long lashes.

“I'm all right, thank you. And you?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I wasn't injured, fortunately.”

Of course you weren't.
Kerta didn't get injured. She also didn't curse, drink, sweat, or allow a single perfect blond curl to stray from its proper place. She even fought primly. The second daughter of Byron Middlemarch, Kerta did everything in her power to live up to her family's ambitions. The only reason she lowered herself to serve as a scout was that she was too small—too bloody
dainty
—to do much of anything else. And anyway, that was only temporary; Kerta had bigger designs. Once her service with the Kingswords was through, she would no doubt marry well, perhaps even into one of the Banner Houses. The Browns, maybe, or the Greens. About the only house she
didn't
have a chance of marrying into was the Greys—and Alix's own, thank the Nine Virtues.