The Bloodbound (28 page)

“It is far worse than that,” Erik said. “Madan does more than nurture their faith. His dark powers have given them a strength we could never have imagined.”

Tom snorted. “You read too many tales, Erik. The Priest is no dark wizard, and this war is not some epic struggle against evil. It's just an ordinary, shabby squabble that need never have involved us at all.”

Erik regarded his brother almost pityingly. “You could not be more wrong. Tell him, Lord Black.”

Rig's gaze was considerably less sympathetic. “If you had bothered to lift a finger in defence of the kingdom, you would know that the Priest's powers are no tavern tale. He's found a way to pervert the bloodbond, to use it to make soldiers. Men under his power are no more than husks, and he throws their lives away just so. His thralls know no fear and no pain. They're hard to fight and harder to kill. And he has hundreds of them, if not thousands.”

Harsh laughter rang off the polished stone walls. All eyes fell upon Roswald Grey. Until now he'd been content to sneer in silence, but it seemed he could no longer restrain himself. “Is this some kind of jest, Lord Black?” He took full advantage of his imposing height to look down his nose at Rig.

“You cannot seriously expect us to believe such superstitious nonsense,” said another of the Raven's flock, some lesser lady with more gold than breeding, judging from her tastelessly flashy garb.

Before Rig could answer, Arran Green said, “It is of no consequence what you believe, my lady. It is the truth. I have fought more thralls than I care to count. Some are nothing more than bewitched peasants. Their primary purpose is to get in the way. Others are trained soldiers, and they do not fall without a bitter contest. Every man and woman on this side of the table has seen one. All but one of us has faced one in battle. Thralls are very real, and very dangerous, and we have no idea how many of them the enemy has made.”

The Raven listened attentively, his eyebrows knit in a thin black line. Tomald White and Arran Green had known each other a long time. They had trained together, commanded armies together, shed blood together. Tom knew what kind of man the commander general was, and he knew that Arran Green did not lie. “How is such a thing possible?” he asked, ignoring an incredulous look from Roswald Grey.

“We don't know,” Erik said. “Nevyn tells me he has never heard its like. But he is confident that the bond can be broken if the bloodbinder is slain.”

“Then Madan must die,” Tom said.

“We reached a similar conclusion,” Rig said dryly.

“We almost had him,” Erik said, passing a weary hand over his eyes. “We were so close . . .”

“A disappointing failure,” Arran Green said, “for which I take full responsibility. The mission was not a total loss, however. We discovered something important. The Priest is using our own people against us. He has been taking Aldenian prisoners and turning them into thralls. We have no way of knowing how long he has been doing this, or how many he has taken, but he could potentially have swelled his numbers enormously.”

Tom's face darkened at that.
So he does care what happens to his people
, Alix thought.
Too bad he hasn't done a damn thing about it.
The rest of the Raven's flock had changed colour as well, pale or green or red-faced—a veritable rainbow of fear. All except Roswald Grey, who was too busy watching Tom's reaction, presumably in order to decide his own.

“This explains the Andithyrians, perhaps,” the Raven said meditatively.

“You can't be certain of that,” Grey said.

“No, but it is a better theory than yours. It is simply beyond credit that so many Andithyrians would be eager to fight for their conquerors.”

Erik looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”

“Your information is incomplete, brother,” Tom said. “The main host is over fifty thousand strong, yet my scouts report that fully half have the white hair of Andithyri.”

Erik's mouth pressed into a thin line. “The Priest. He must have bound them before he left for the Blacklands.”

“He's probably been binding them for months,” Rig said. Alix thought back to Madan's wasted frame, and she knew her brother was right.
He's probably been at it night and day since they invaded Andithyri. No wonder he's so weak . . .

“We have known about the Andithyrians for some time,” Tom said, “but we assumed they were prisoners. And then suddenly they began to march. It puzzled us greatly, but now it seems to make sense.”

“The Priest probably went straight back to Boswyck Valley after we flushed him out of the Brownlands,” Rig said. “His puppets were just sitting idle, waiting for him to come and pull their strings.”

“And now he has,” said Tom, “and they will be here in a fortnight.”

“No matter,” said Roswald Grey. “We have twenty thousand Kingswords. More than enough to hold the city.”

Rig snorted. “Are you such a bloody fool?”

Roswald Grey flushed an ugly pink. “You're the fool. Everyone knows you need ten times the number of defenders to take a city.”

Tom gave his ally an impatient look. “Have you understood nothing? This is no ordinary army. The Oridians march on us with tens of thousands of thralls, bloodforged of their enemies. What do they care how many white-hairs fall? They will show no caution, no scruple. They'll throw everything they have at the gates, and even if half their host is cut down before they break through, they will still outnumber us. They'll put the city to the torch, and it will be over.”

His last words echoed ominously under the high ceiling. Alix shuddered.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Erik said, “Under the circumstances, I trust you will agree that we cannot afford to be divided now.”

“I do agree,” said Tom. For half a heartbeat, Alix thought they'd won. Then he added, “Which is why you must step aside. Your ruinous leadership brought us to this place. We should never have started this war, and our best chance now is to find a diplomatic solution.”

Erik's eyes iced over. “Your efforts to find a diplomatic solution have not borne fruit so far. Why should you imagine that will change, especially now that the enemy has us by the throat?”

Tom blinked. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

“Yes,” Erik said coldly, “I know about your secret dealings with the enemy.”

Tom gave a well-studied shrug. “Of course I attempted to treat with the enemy. It was only prudent.”

“It was prudent to offer them your king's head?”

Shocked breaths came from both sides of the table. Erik had not shared that secret with all of his people, and apparently neither had the Raven.

“You are beneath contempt, Tomald White,” Arran Green said in a tone capable of freezing solid rock.

“I made no such offer. The offer was made to me.”

“And you accepted it,” Erik said, very quietly. “You abandoned us on the field of battle, hoping the Oridians would do your work for you. And when that failed, you set assassins upon me, and upon those sworn to protect me.”

Tom frowned at that. Alix thought he might have glanced at Roswald Grey, but it was too quick to be sure. “I did not come here to face accusations,” he said. “I came here to give you a chance to surrender peacefully. This kingdom cannot survive another day of your reign. You may already have destroyed us, and all the realm knows it.”

“I admit that I underestimated the threat we faced,” Erik said.

Good. Now he would say what they'd planned—that Boswyck had opened his eyes, made him a wiser man and a better king.

“There are so many things I would have done differently . . .” He hesitated.

Come on, Erik
, Alix urged him silently. She knew it would sit badly with him to forswear his decision to go to war, like confessing to a crime he hadn't committed. But he had to do it.

Tom interrupted him. “You are a good man, brother, but you are a fool.” He said the words gently, even regretfully. “You have coasted through your reign as you have your life, getting by on a wink, counting on your charm to carry you while you left the difficult work to others.” He swallowed, his face tightening with barely suppressed emotion. “Father never saw it, not even after you forsook him. But the rest of us see.
I
see. I told you that we could not win this war, Erik. I told you that our allies would not stir. But still you insisted on your damned treaty. You would not soil your precious honour, so I soiled mine. I did what I had to do, for the realm. Just as I am doing now.”

Erik was very still. “So you will not stand down?”

“Not for you. Not for a king who lets his pride get in the way of sensible compromise. A king does not have the luxury of cleaving to his principles when every shred of evidence points to its folly. Alden needs someone who is prepared to do whatever it takes to defend the realm.”

“You're right,” Erik said with that same frightening calm. “I have taken that lesson to heart, though I cannot bring myself to thank you for it.”

Alix bit her lip. It wasn't the most gracious admission, but at least Erik was saying the words.
Now he needs to convince Tom that he's changed enough to keep the crown . . .
It wasn't too late. Erik could turn this around . . .

But instead, the king said, “Guards.”

They poured in from two doors flanking the king's table, doors that Alix had ordered sealed. Two dozen royal guardsmen, weapons in hand. For a moment, the hall was shocked into silence. Then Roswald Grey leapt to his feet, crying, “What treachery is this?” The rest of the Raven's flock took up the call, springing from their chairs and flapping and squawking their outrage. “Parley!” they cried, as though the word itself were a shield. As for Tom, he just sat there, stunned, like a bird that has just slammed into an invisible pane of glass.

“Your word,” he said. “You swore.”

“Yes,” Erik said sadly, “I did.” He pushed his chair back and stood. Tom stared for a moment at the empty seat. Then he looked up at his brother. He smiled.

The guards closed in. Roswald Grey broke into a run, heading for the door at the foot of the gallery. Alix didn't bother to give chase. There were guards at the door, and more in the courtyard; he wouldn't get far. But the guards only nodded to Grey as he went by, and suddenly men in strange livery were streaming in through the gallery door.

Alix's heart froze in her chest.

The attack came from above.

A
n arrow slammed into the table and stood between the brothers, quivering. Quicker than Alix would have thought possible, the Raven was diving over the table, swinging his kite shield down from his back. Alix grabbed her blade, but she was too late. Tom reached for his brother . . .

. . . and pulled him behind the shield just as another arrow buried itself in the wood with a meaty
thunk
.

Arran Green shouted at the guards. Rig was already halfway across the room, blade in hand, rushing to intercept the men pouring in through the gallery door. Liam grabbed the table and upended it, and the rest of them hunkered down behind the makeshift cover.

“Grey!” Tom snarled, daring a glance over the top of the table. “I should have known!”

Adelbard Brown threw the Raven an incredulous look. “You expect us to believe you had nothing to do with this?”

At that moment, Alix didn't give a flaming fig who was behind it. Erik was in danger, and she needed to get him out. But that would be no easy feat. The clash of metal told her the battle had been joined, but from what she'd seen, Grey's men outnumbered the royal guardsmen. Most of the doors were still sealed. Instead of trapping their enemies in, Alix had trapped the palace guards out. And there was still the matter of that archer.

“There's only one of them on the balcony,” Liam said, as though reading her thoughts. “Does anyone have a dagger?”

Tom unsheathed his and handed it over, hilt first. “A tricky throw. Are you sure you can make it?”

“Nope.” Liam peered over the top of the table.

“Then let me,” Tom said.

Liam hesitated, but at a nod from Erik, he passed the dagger back. “Get ready,” he said. He lifted his head above the table again, just long enough to goad the archer into a shot. Another shaft slammed into the wood. Quick as a snake, Tom uncoiled from his crouch and whipped the blade. There was no scream, but Alix heard the sickening sound of a body hitting the stone floor, and she knew the Raven had made his throw.

Liam vaulted over the table, grabbed the sword of a slain guardsman, and joined the fight. Raibert Green found a blade for himself, and after a moment's hesitation, Adelbard Brown followed. Rig and Arran Green fought at the centre of the melee, surrounded by the king's men, but they were still outnumbered by at least half, and there was no telling how many more Greyswords might be in the corridor.

The Raven whirled on Alix. “Get the king away from here.”

She didn't need to be told twice. She put a hand on Erik's arm. “Come on!”

He pulled away. “I need a sword. There are enough of us. We can—”

Tom shoved him so hard that Erik nearly lost his footing.
“Go, fool!”

Erik's jaw tightened, and for a moment Alix feared he would argue. Then he cursed and spun on his heel, letting Alix herd him toward the door.

They spilled out into a deserted corridor. “This way,” Erik said, taking off at a trot. Alix followed, her gaze scouring their surroundings for any sign of threat. They passed a branching hallway where a pair of royal guardsmen was scrambling to unbar the door. The alarm had obviously been sounded, but where were the rest of the guards? And how in the bloody hells had the Greyswords gotten in?

Her questions would have to wait. She recognised Erik's path; they were headed for the main doors, and the courtyard beyond. “Wait, we can't go that way!”

“Why not?”

“They came in through the gallery door. That gives straight onto the courtyard. There might be more of them out there. For all we know, Grey has every sword in his service attacking the palace right now.”

“You're right.” Erik glanced indecisively at the branching corridors on either side of them. His eyes widened. “The tunnel!”

Alix shook her head, lost.

“There's a secret tunnel under the palace,” Erik explained. “It was built after the White War, so the royal family could escape in case of attack. It runs from the wine cellar all the way to the Crying Keep. But we needn't go that far—there's another way out through the base of the gate tower.”

That was good enough for Alix. “Let's go.” Erik looked surprised when she darted past him, but she didn't need to be shown the way. She'd kept her promise to learn every square inch of the keep, and that included what lay below. She hadn't turned up any secret tunnels, but she could lead them to the wine cellar easily enough. She went left, then right, then right again, shoving past startled servants carrying pails and brooms and bundles of linen. They were almost at the entrance to the wine cellar when they came upon a clutch of guards racing in the opposite direction. “Here,” Alix called to them, “the king needs a sword!” A young guard unsheathed his blade and offered it up two-handed. Erik looked relieved to be holding steel again.

They hurried on. Soon, they came upon the heavy oak door leading down to the cellars. It stood slightly ajar, but Alix wasn't surprised; servants beat a steady path up and down these stairs all day long. Torches lit the way down wide stone steps worn to a shine with use. Alix led, the shadow of her blade stretching and writhing along the wall like some great dark serpent. The air grew cool as they descended, and it wasn't long before she could smell damp wood and wine. When they reached the bottom of the stair, Erik said, “This way.”

Row upon row of casks marched in neat ranks before them. Erik weaved his way between them for what seemed like forever, turning this way and that until he came to a door almost hidden behind the barrels. They passed through it into a smaller room with even more wine casks stacked in clusters beneath peaked stone vaults. “The finer vintages,” Erik said, as if he were giving her a leisurely tour of the palace. He pointed with his sword. “The tunnel is just through there, in that alcove.”

“Let me go first.” Alix ducked to pass beneath the low stone archway.

Just as she crossed the threshold, something darted out from the shadows and caught her boot. She went down hard. There was a rustle of movement, and cool steel pressed against her throat.

“Well, now, Lady Black,” said a familiar, rasping voice. “Here is a reversal. Usually it's
your
blade at
my
throat.”

Alix opened her mouth to reply, but Saxon yanked her to her feet, his dagger still pressed against her. Erik crouched in the archway, ready to spring. Only the blade at Alix's throat held him back.

“Stay where you are, Your Majesty,” the spy said as he dragged Alix backward.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. Her guts twisted in fear. Had she misjudged the spy after all?

Her answer came as Saxon lowered his knife. “Avoiding death. My apologies, but His Majesty looks to be in a
kill first, ask questions later
sort of mood. It seemed wise to put a little distance between us before I let you go.”

Erik stepped carefully through the archway, the tip of his sword levelled at the spy's chest. “Do you know this man?”

“I do. He's with me.”

Erik's expression did not soften. “Then why did he attack you?”

“I beg your pardon,” Saxon said. “I was concealed in the shadows, with only my ears to guide me. I was not sure who you were.”

“Who are
you
, and how did you get in here?”

“A humble spy in the service of my lady of Blackhold,” Saxon said with a little bow. “As to how I come to be here, I followed one Roswald Grey.”

Alix spun instinctively, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her sword. “He's here?”

“I believe so, though I am not entirely sure where
here
is.”

“He must know about the tunnel,” Erik said. “Someone in my service has loose lips.”

“Someone in your service is no longer in your service at all, Your Majesty,” Saxon said. “Many
someones
, in fact.”

Alix had no time for the spy's dramatics. “Speak plainly!”

“I fear I have let you down, Lady Black, a fact that I am only now coming to realise, and rather by accident. You see, I found myself curious as to the outcome of today's events, so I came to the palace. I was content to loiter outside the gates, waiting to see who emerged, but then I saw something strange. One of the guards at the gate managed to slip away when his comrades weren't looking. I followed him, and whom should I find him speaking with but Lord Roswald Grey? I knew then that I had gravely miscalculated. I have been so busy seeking out White Ravens among the nobility that I did not think to seek them among the palace guards. An unforgivable oversight, I humbly admit. When the Greyswords arrived at the gates, a moment's bloodshed was all it took to eliminate those guards who were not already in Grey's pocket. When they raised the portcullis, I stole inside. I thought to find you, but I couldn't make my way into the oratorium without being seen. And then I heard shouting, and swordplay, and then Grey reappeared. I followed him down here, only to lose him in this maze of barrels. And here we are.”

“How many Greyswords got into the palace compound?” Alix asked.

“A hundred, perhaps more. They control the gate. They lowered the portcullis as soon as they were inside.”

“Meaning the Kingswords cannot get in,” Erik said.

Saxon nodded. “I heard them blow the horn at the barracks, but the portcullis was already down by then.”

“There aren't enough palace guards to hold them off,” Alix said. She was stating the obvious, yet something didn't make sense. “Even if they take the keep, what then? With the Kingswords outside the walls, they'll never be able to fight their way back out again.”

“It's not the keep they're after,” Erik said, sounding incredibly weary. “If they had managed to take me, they would not need to fight their way out. Kill me or hold me—either way, they win.”

Of course. That's why Grey came down here. He knew Erik would come this way . . .
“We have to go. Right now.”

Erik led them deeper into the shadows of the alcove. There were no torches here; the walls were more felt than seen, close and dark and radiating cold. Erik knelt. “Help me, Alix.” She crouched, and Erik took her hand and guided it to a leather loop. A trapdoor. “On three.” He counted, and together they pulled. Wood groaned against wood, and the trapdoor came free.

Alix went first. The drop wasn't long; her boots immediately hit stone, sounding dull and flat in the confined space. She reached up and brushed the ceiling of the tunnel with her fingertips. Erik would probably have to duck to keep from hitting his head. “I need a torch,” she called up.

They brought two. Alix led the way with one, and Saxon brought up the rear with the other. Torchlight gleamed off wet stone walls as they hurried along. The tunnel curved gradually to the left, taking them under the keep and toward the palace walls, and before long, they came to a flight of steps branching off into darkness. The gate tower exit, Alix supposed, but given what Saxon had told them, she meant to take the tunnel all the way to the Crying Keep.

Erik had other ideas. “Wait,” he said in a tone Alix had learned to dread. “If we took those stairs . . .”

“If we took those stairs, you would head straight back into danger. The Greyswords hold the gate, remember?”

Erik continued as if he hadn't heard. “We could raise the portcullis and let the Kingswords in. They would smash the Greyswords in moments!”

“Our men are probably already finding a way to climb the walls,” Alix said, but it sounded unlikely even to her. They would need time to find ladders or grappling hooks or some such.

“Come on.” Before Alix could stop him, Erik had shouldered past her and started up the stairs. All she could do was curse and follow.

Another trapdoor brought them into the cellar of the gate tower. Torches illuminated rows of blades and bows, ready to be taken up in defence of the gates. On the far side of the room, another stairway led to the main floor, and the portcullis. Dimly, Alix could hear the sound of blades clashing in the courtyard.

Erik heard it too. His eyes gleamed. “Let's go.”

“Erik, wait!”

He ignored her, bounding up the steps two at a time.

A knife flashed through the air, tumbling end over end. It was aimed at the king's back, but the throw was ill-timed, and the weapon bounced uselessly off one of the steps. Erik continued on, oblivious, vanishing into shadow as he climbed. Alix whirled to find a blurred form charging toward her. She barely had time to recognise Roswald Grey before his sword greeted her at a run. She turned the slash aside, but he didn't slow, crashing into her and driving her to the hard stone floor. The air left her lungs in a
whoosh
.

Grey pinned her beneath his body and wrapped a hand around her throat. Alix tried to drive a knee into his groin, but he got his own knee inside hers and wrenched her leg aside. She bucked and twisted, panic threatening to overtake her. The memory of her encounter with the thrall was still fresh; it seemed to her that Grey's eyes were lifeless and flat, filling her vision . . .

A boot connected with his face, snapping his head back, and a second blow knocked him aside. Saxon hauled Alix to her feet. She clutched at him, half leaning, half shoving. “Go,” she gasped, “find the king! Help him!”

“I am no warrior . . .”

“You're all he has.
Please.
”

Saxon hesitated a moment longer, but he did as she asked, bolting up the stairs after Erik.

Grey had regained his feet by then, but he didn't attack right away. He faced Alix warily, reluctant to make the first move now that he had lost the element of surprise. Instead, he tried to intimidate her. “He's a fool to go up there.” Grey jerked his head toward the stairs. “My men will open his guts for him.”