The Bloodbound (23 page)

Her nose caught smoke again, stronger this time. She pressed herself up against a tree, motioning for Liam to do the same. She listened. When she was satisfied all was still, she darted ahead a few paces and ducked behind another tree. She waited. Behind her, Liam traced her steps. Bit by bit they moved forward, until Alix spotted a flash of colour. She dropped low and peered around the tree trunk.

A sentry leaned against a white-skinned poplar, looking bored. His crimson tabard did him no favours; he stood out like a wildflower after a fire. Alix chewed her lip uncertainly. If Ide were with them, she might have dropped the sentry with an arrow. As it was, Alix could think of only one way to deal with him, but it was risky. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the undergrowth. At first she saw only empty forest, but after a moment, Liam peered around a tree and met her eye. She mimed tossing something, and he nodded. Moments later, a branch spun through the air to land with a leafy rustle behind her. Alix flattened herself against her tree and waited.

A crackle of brush signalled that the sentry had taken the bait. Alix clutched her dirk to her chest and held her breath. The footsteps drew close. Stopped. Alix's heart hammered in her ears. Another snap and rustle, and he was on the move again. A flash of crimson appeared in her peripheral vision. Alix waited until the sentry had passed, then slipped up behind him and slashed her blade across his throat. He folded over himself with a gurgle and slumped to the ground. Alix briefly considered dragging him off someplace out of sight, but dismissed the idea. It would take too long and make too much noise. She settled for arranging the brush around him as best she could.

A little farther on, she spotted the first sign of the Oridian camp: a heavy wagon hunkered in the shade of an immense oak tree. She frowned.
Why would they struggle through the woods with
that
?
She shifted position to get a better look, and she had her answer.
Prisoners.
A dozen or more, packed so tightly into the wagon that elbows and knees and hands protruded between the wooden bars.
What in the gods are they taking prisoners for?
There was no call for rounding up civilians like cattle.
Savages
, she thought bitterly.

The prisoners complicated matters. Alix wasn't under any illusions about rescuing them—Arran Green would never permit a risk like that—but a dozen prisoners had a dozen pairs of eyes, and she couldn't be sure what they would do if one of them spotted her. She crouched, debating her next move.

Voices sounded nearby. Alix tensed and ducked lower. A pair of Oridian soldiers made their way toward the wagon, and when the prisoners caught sight of them, they began to whimper and plead.

“Please don't take me,” a man's voice said. “I'm too old.”

“Not my son!” a woman wailed. “Not my son!”

The Oridians ignored them. One soldier unlocked the rear door of the wagon, while the other stood with a crossbow trained on the prisoners. They dragged a young man out by the hair and tossed him off the back before locking up the wagon once more.

The young man lay still, trembling. It was not until the soldiers hauled him to his feet that he spoke. “Please,” he said. “Please don't take my blood. I don't want to be one of them. I'll fight anyway. I'll do whatever you want.” One of the soldiers cuffed him into silence, and together, the Oridians lugged him away.

Alix's blood had gone cold.
I must have misheard. I must have misunderstood.
Instinctively, she turned around to look at Liam. He stared back at her, his eyes round with horror, and she knew she hadn't misunderstood.

They're bleeding the prisoners. Merciful Nine, they're turning them into thralls. Our own people . . .

Rage pooled in her guts, searing hot and sickening. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dirk.
Arran Green be damned. I'm getting these people out.
Liam would help her. She knew he would.

Alix rose from her crouch. No sooner had she done so than a terrible sound ripped through the silence and froze her veins all over again.

Kerta was screaming.

A
lix whipped around to look at Liam, but he had already bolted from his hiding place and taken off in the direction of the sound. She charged after him, her mind a tumult. Kerta's screams shredded her concentration, leaving her with only ragged scraps of thought.
Pain, or fear? Liam too fast. Going to get caught. Take our blood.

Liam coursed through the trees like a hound with a scent; Alix caught only glimpses of him amid a flurry of green and amber and brown. It was all she could do to follow. Branches caught at her armour and stung her cheeks, and she nearly turned an ankle stumbling over a root. With each step, she fell farther behind. She had the vague sense they were headed back the way they had come, but the screaming disoriented her. It bounced off trees and filtered through brush, seeming to come from several directions at once.

“Liam!” Her voice was lost in the crashing of her own footfalls. She tried again, louder this time. “Liam!”

He heard me. I know he heard me.
Still he ran on.

“Damn it, Liam,
stop
!”

He held up, whipped around. “What?”

“We have to slow down.” She trotted up to him, panting. “We're making too much noise—”

“Noise?” He gestured furiously at the trees. “Are you
listening
to that? You know what they're doing to her! You heard what they said!”

“We can't help her if we're dead. You keep moving like that, you're going to bring the whole camp down on our heads.”

“She's one of
us
,” he snapped. “You used to know what that meant.”

Alix flinched, stunned into silence.

“Shut it, both of you!” Ide's scowling face popped out from behind a screen of leaves. “Gonna get us all killed!”

Gwylim materialised at Alix's side. “She's stopped,” he said. It took Alix a moment to realise what he meant. The woods were silent. Kerta was silent.

Oh, gods.
Alix felt a stab of guilt for every unkind thought she'd ever had about Kerta Middlemarch.
Please let her be all right.

Liam was beside himself. “We have to find her! And Green—where in the hells is he?”

“We'll find them,” Gwylim said. “
Quietly.
This way.”

They threaded through the trees, moving cautiously once more. The sudden calm chewed at Alix's nerves. Where was the wind? The birdsong? It seemed to her that the forest held its breath, disturbed by the unnatural forces at work in its midst. The only sound was their footfalls rustling and snapping, a veritable clamour against the eerie hush.

A slash of crimson appeared in the undergrowth. Alix tensed, but Ide raised a hand and mouthed, “
Dead.
” She patted her bow by way of explanation. Alix wondered how many more sentries might be about. If Kerta and Arran Green had been taken, the Oridians would probably assume there were more enemy scouts nearby.
Four against gods know how many, and miles from any help.

A voice sounded from just ahead. Alix and the others dropped to the undergrowth. Another voice, closer at hand, gave answer. Alix caught the Oridian word for “carry,” but the rest was gibberish. Not for the first time, she cursed herself for not paying closer attention to her lessons.
A woman of your station must know her languages
, her mother used to say, though Alix doubted these were quite the circumstances she'd had in mind.

She could see them now: a pair of soldiers crouched over something in the bushes. They straightened, hauling a limp form between them. Green. The commander general was motionless, his head drooping to his chest. Unconscious or dead? At this distance, it was impossible to tell.
They're moving him. They wouldn't bother if he were dead.
So she told herself, but who knew what grisly uses the Priest might have for a corpse? She pushed the thought away.

Gwylim's ash-blond hair poked up from the leaves. He met Alix's eye and jerked his head in the direction of the departing Oridians.
We follow.
Alix nodded her understanding.

The Oridians dragged Arran Green all the way back to their camp, but they didn't take him to the prisoner wagon. Instead, they deposited him outside a large pavilion ostentatiously stitched with the golden trident of Oridia. The guards flanking the entrance barely spared a glance for the body at their feet; apparently, they had seen it all before. One of the two soldiers who had brought Green ducked inside the tent. The other waited with the guards, arms folded, a bored expression on his face. Alix imagined an arrow sprouting from his eye, as though wishing it could make it so.

Moments later, the first soldier reappeared, accompanied by a thin man in blood-red robes. Alix recognised the raiment of an Oridian priest, and her breath caught in her throat. But when she looked at Gwylim, he shook his head.
Not him.
He gestured at his chest, tracing a pattern with his fingers. Something about the robes was wrong, apparently. A design was missing, something that would identify him as the Trion.
But still, I'd bet all the gold in the Black River that Madan is in that tent.

The robed man squatted over Arran Green's inert form. He nodded and said something to the soldiers, and they hauled Green up again. As they talked, a second priest appeared from inside the pavilion carrying a shallow silver bowl. He took a few steps away from the tent and lunged, sending a sheet of dark liquid crashing into the bushes. The move dislodged a cloud of flies, and above, a trio of crows cackled approvingly.
Blood
, Alix thought, bile rising in the back of her throat.

The priests both disappeared back inside the tent, leaving the soldiers to drag Arran Green away. They didn't go far, circling the pavilion and dumping Green in a small clearing behind the tent. There, another priest hunched over a body like an ungainly red vulture. Alix couldn't see what he was doing, but when he moved, she spied a flash of spun gold against a pale brow. Kerta. The priest stood. In his arms he carried a silver bowl identical to the one his comrade had carried. Alix had no doubt what was in it. The priest started to make his way toward the pavilion. Now she was certain Madan was in there. The blood was being brought to him so he could perform whatever gods-cursed ritual he used to turn human beings into his personal puppets. He was about to perform that ritual on Kerta, to bind her with her own blood.
Farika's mercy, we can't let them make her a thrall. Better she dies . . .

The soldiers standing over Green suddenly drew their blades. The commander general was stirring. One of the soldiers raised his sword over his head, ready to club his prisoner back into unconsciousness. Alix nearly choked aloud. Without Green, they had no chance.

There was no time for planning. No time even for decisions. Alix let out a cry and charged.

The soldiers whirled at the sound. One of them took a step toward Alix, but he staggered suddenly, one of Ide's arrows lodged in his throat. Alix closed in on the second soldier, her dirk at the ready. From behind came the sound of her companions crashing through the brush.

The priest with Kerta's blood hesitated, looking down into the bowl uncertainly. Self-preservation won out; he dropped the bowl and fled. Gwylim gave chase, kicking the bowl over as he passed. Alix had never seen him look more determined.

The guard circled her, demanding her full attention. She coiled for a strike, but Liam never gave her the chance. He flew past her in a blur, launching himself into the air and slamming the point of his dirk into the narrow gap between spaulders and breastplate, dropping the soldier with chilling precision. He was on the move as soon as his boots hit ground, squaring off to face a guard who'd come running to help. Alix grabbed the fallen soldier's sword and tossed it to Liam. He'd do better with a longer blade.

She glanced over at Green. Ide knelt at his side, helping him to sit. Satisfied that her commander was seen to, Alix moved to flank Liam's foe. But by now the second guard had arrived, and Alix had problems of her own. The guard was armed with a two-handed greatsword, too much weapon to counter with her slim dirk. If only she'd had her bloodblade, they might have been more evenly matched, but like Liam, she had traded protection for stealth. To make matters worse, the garnets studding the crossguard marked the weapon as bloodforged. It would be lighter and nimbler than a conventional greatsword, making it harder for Alix to compensate with speed. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Swallowing down a thick knot of fear, she braced for attack.

He came at her with a thrust. Alix leapt aside, instinctively bringing her blade down to cross, but the dirk only glanced off the sturdy edge of the greatsword. The move cost her balance, and a second lunge nearly took her in the midsection. She spun, trying to get behind her attacker, but he pivoted with her, keeping the point of his sword trained on her. He was too smart to try a slash; she would just get under his backswing, or dart into his follow-through. Instead he lined her up for another thrust, feinting left before diving right. Alix read his footwork in time, but just barely, and she was too unsteady to mount a counterstrike. At this rate, she would be exhausted before she landed a single hit.

The guard dove again, and this time, when Alix stepped aside, he tried to smash her in the face with the butt of his sword. She ducked the blow and managed to get her dirk up under his arm, burying it to the hilt. The guard grunted and staggered back. The dirk was wrenched free from Alix's grasp; it dangled for a moment before dropping to the ground, a streamer of blood trailing after it.
Let's see how well you handle that steel now.
Bloodblade or no, the greatsword weighed too much to use one-handed.

But he wasn't dead yet, and Alix was without a weapon. The guard took his sword half-hand, grasping the blade to steady it. He charged. Alix twisted behind him. As he came around, she grabbed the hilt of his sword, grappling with him just long enough to slam a boot into the back of his knee. He buckled, and in one smooth motion, Alix scooped up her dirk and opened his throat.

More soldiers crashed into the clearing. Alix eyed the fallen greatsword regretfully. Even if she'd been strong enough to wield it, the blade had been forged of someone else's blood; it would never obey her. Her dirk would have to do.

Beside her, Liam finished off the guard he was fighting and engaged a new foe. Ide had jumped into the fray, and Arran Green too, though the commander general looked a little unsteady on his feet. Their numbers were almost evenly matched.
So few
, Alix thought, confused.
We should be overwhelmed by now. Where are the rest of them?

“The Priest!” Arran Green called as he crossed swords with a guard. “Find him, Alix!”

She obeyed, heading straight for the pavilion. As she rounded the back corner, she came upon the priest who'd been collecting Kerta's blood. He lay on his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. He'd been opened from navel to breastbone. Gwylim's work. But where had he gone? Her answer came as she spied a long slash in the canvas wall of the pavilion, as though someone had taken a sword to it. She hesitated only a moment before diving through.

She had barely stepped inside before her boot caught something, and she nearly went down. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, the heap at her feet resolved itself into Gwylim. He lay prone near the opening, hair matted with blood. He gazed up at her groggily. He started to gesture at something, but then his eyes went wide. Alix spun in time to see the flash of a blade. She threw herself to the ground and rolled into a crouch. An Oridian guard loomed over her. He started to lunge, but Gwylim stuck his knee out, sending the guard sprawling into Alix's arms. She killed him cleanly.

A scramble of movement on the far side of the tent drew her eye. Another guard was rushing toward her. Beyond him, a pair of priests struggled to help a third man to his feet. Alix could see him only in profile, but he looked ancient: thin, hairless, bloodless. The priests were shouting at him as though he were half deaf. Alix recognised a handful of words.
Danger. Go.
Then the guard was upon her, and she was ducking out of the way of another blade. At her feet, Gwylim groaned; Alix glimpsed the look of pure desperation in his eyes as he struggled to sit. “Madan. Getting away. Don't let him, Alix . . .”

She deflected one blow and stepped inside another, landing an ineffectual cut against the guard's breastplate. He tried to pivot around her, but Alix grabbed his wrist and immobilised his sword hand. They struggled. Across the tent, the priests had finally managed to get the third man to his feet. He sagged between them, as though he lacked the strength to stand on his own. He turned his head toward the commotion at the back of the pavilion.

Deep shadows sketched the angles of a hollowed, ashen face. Sunken eyes met Alix's, took the measure of her from across the tent. There was no fear in those eyes. There was nothing at all. Madan gazed at her long enough for her heart to beat, to send her blood coursing through every inch of her body, to sound a single, dull thud in her ears. Then he looked away, and his priests dragged him through the tent flap and beyond.

Alix cried out in frustration, summoning all her strength, but the guard was too strong, her blade too short. Her knees were slowly giving out beneath his weight. Determination melted into despair.
He was right there. Right there, and I let him get away!
The guard hooked his boot behind her ankle, trying to drag her leg out from under her. Then Gwylim was there, lurching into the guard and tangling him up just enough for Alix to break free and jab her dirk up under his chin. He jerked and gasped and died on his feet.

Shouts sounded outside the tent.
Attack. Hurry.
Alix slipped her arm under Gwylim's. “Madan,” he breathed.

“We have to go. More of them are coming.” She started to steer him away.