The Bloodforged (14 page)

“Chief Mallik, meanwhile, will not have dared an opinion on who is to blame, except to suggest that it was unlikely to be the enemy. No great feat of deduction, that. From what I hear, the Warlord could not be less concerned with Onnan. A tiny, yapping dog, easily kicked to a corner.”

Liam scowled. “No offence, but if Saxon sent you to help me, you're letting him down. I don't really need a narration of my week. I need new information. Do you have any?”

“Not as such. What I have is intuition and experience, and both tell me that everything you have heard so far is misdirection, men pointing the finger at one another in service to their own narrow interests. They are opportunists, using this crisis as an excuse to destroy their enemies. No one has yet had the spine, or the incentive, to tell you the truth: that whatever is going on here, it has nothing to do with league politics or international espionage. This is not about Alliance versus Congress, or Oridia versus Onnan. There is some other game at play here.”

“The secret societies?”

“A reasonable supposition. The true power struggles in this country always come back to the Shield, or the Sons of the Revolution, or both.”

“But how am I supposed to find out what I need to know? If men like Kar won't even admit to belonging to these societies, how am I supposed to find out what they're after?” Liam had been feeling helpless before, but this—this was a whole new level of futility. He almost didn't want to hear it. It was all he could do not to stick his fingers in his ears and hum a tune.

“That is where I come in, Your Highness.” The man sketched a brief bow. “I have connections in both societies. Men of influence. I can try to get you a meeting.”

“Great,” Liam said. It came out more sarcastic than he'd meant it to.

“No promises, but give me a few days.”

“How much will it cost me?”

The man smiled. “No charge, Your Highness. Having Saxon owe me a favour is more than enough compensation.”

Liam decided he didn't want to think about that too much. “How do I get in touch with you?” he asked.
How do I know I can trust you?
he wanted to add.

“You don't. I will get in touch with you. Just be ready. You may not be given much notice. And whatever you do, do
not
carry arms into the den of a secret society. It will be the end of you.” So saying, the man bowed again and, without further ado, swept over the balcony.

Liam could only watch him go, wondering if things had just looked up, or gotten much, much worse.

Candlelight flickered over
the map, a wavering orange glow that spread hungrily over the towns and forests of Alden, as though a great inferno devoured the land. The image pleased Sadik. Almost as much as it pleased him to move the final cluster of crimson blocks into place, representing the battalion of cavalry he'd called up that morning. Together with the infantry, they formed a crescent around the forlorn little white blocks at the border, a bloody curved blade poised to strike off the head of an enemy on its knees.

He grabbed a tankard of ale, took a long, frothy pull. He lived for moments like these, savoured them as nothing else in this world. Victory was sweet, but the anticipation of victory . . . that was ecstasy. Nothing else came close to it, not even the touch of a woman. Not every man would agree with him in that, he knew, but he was not like other men. He was a Trion, high warlord of an empire that stretched from sea to sea. He'd earned his place through moments like these. Small wonder he gloried in them as no other man.

Reaching into the pitifully small cluster of white blocks, he plucked out a single black one.
General Riggard Black.
A name he had known only a few months, one that meant little to him. Who had this man been before being named commander general? What had he done to distinguish himself on the battlefield? No Arran Green, that one.

Sadik's mouth took a sour turn, as it always did, when he thought of
that
worthy name. He had been robbed of that victory, and the anticipation of it. If he could have, he'd have killed the man who took Green's head. It had not been his to take. That skull belonged above Sadik's mantel, where the shattered skulls of all his best enemies were kept. It could not be replaced, not by King Erik White, and certainly not by this Riggard Black.

A matter of small consequence, he supposed, in the larger picture. It would all be over by summer. The Trionate of Oridia would spread his glorious mantle over poor little Alden, offer
his protection, and then have his way with her. Varad would have another crown to add to his pile. A meaningless trinket. It was Sadik who would truly profit from the conquest of Alden. He would have her timber, her gold, her single paltry bloodbinder. She would make him stronger. She would have made Madan stronger too, offering up more souls to his altar, but he had pushed himself too far, and paid the price. No matter. The Priest had passed on his secrets before he died. Sadik had seen to that. And he would put those secrets to better use than his fellow Trion ever had.

Not that he needed such dark devices. With seven bloodbinders in his army and a fresh spy in his enemy's pocket, he had more than enough strength to crush the armies of Alden. Still, a wise general makes use of all the resources at his disposal, and Sadik was more than a wise general. He was the greatest warlord the Trionate had ever known.

Gently, Sadik placed the little black block on the north side of the river, at Whitefish Bridge.
I wish you luck, General, with your surprise attack. Though I fear the surprise will be yours.

With a blissful sigh, Sadik drank his ale.

“W
ell,” Rig said, “this should be fun.”

Commander Wright flashed a tight smile. “You have unusual ideas about fun, General.”

“I have unusual ideas about a lot of things.” Unusual enough, he hoped, to catch the Warlord by surprise. He was about to find out.

Wheeling his horse around, Rig addressed the ranks. “I won't lie to you men. A lot of blood will be spilled today. It won't take the enemy long to realise what we're up to, and when he does,
he's going to come at us hard.” He paused, surveying the faces before him. Fearful eyes stared out from under half helms; white knuckles curled around the hafts of pikes and poleaxes. A trill of birdsong filled the silence, incongruously bright in the grim chill of dawn. “That's what's going to happen,” Rig continued. “That's what's
supposed
to happen. Remember that when you see your enemy bearing down on you. Remember it, and draw strength from it. When he comes at you, when you see the whites of his eyes, you brace your feet, grip your weapon, and you thank the gods that Oridian swine is doing just what we want him to do.” Rig tore his sword from its scabbard.
“And then you take his gods-damned head!”

The men roared and brandished their weapons. Rig gave them a moment to vent their tension before turning his horse back around to rejoin Wright. “Ready?”

“As I will ever be,” Wright said, remarkably poised for a man on the cusp of his first real battle.

“Right. Let's get going.” Slamming down his visor and putting the spurs to his horse, Rig led the vanguard through the trees toward Whitefish Bridge.

The ancient structure lay in no-man's-land between the armies, well covered by archers on both banks. Each side knew that the other was watching, ready to strike down anyone attempting to cross the wide open expanse of the Gunnar. Ready, but not really expecting it, because it would be foolish to try. If Sadik were to attempt it, he'd find himself pinned at a choke point, able to throw only a narrow column of attackers against a wall of defenders—a waste of good men. For Rig, it would be worse than a waste; it would be suicide. He'd be trading the relative safety of his own side of the border for a head-on meeting in enemy territory with a force twice the size of his own, leaving that same choke point between him and retreat.

So naturally, that was exactly what he meant to do.

A stutter of hooves ricocheted off the trees as they approached the bridge. They would meet resistance here, but how much? How many of Sadik's men watched the bridge, and how many prepared to ford the Gunnar upstream? Everything hinged on that question. It had been pure guesswork. If Rig had guessed right, many of his men would die today. If he'd guessed wrong, they all would. And so would he.

The arrows were the first to meet them.

Silent as wind, near-invisible in the shadows of the trees, they slanted down from the sky on crimson feathers, ringing off armour and embedding themselves in horseflesh. Rig hunkered low behind his horse's neck, raising his shield as high as he dared without leaving his flank completely open. Behind him, he heard unluckier men cry out as the missiles found flesh. Kingsword archers answered from the near bank, their bows pointed skyward to send a volley of shafts arcing up over the trees.

He could see the bridge now, tantalisingly close. Getting over it would be a trick, but Rig had fitted his cavalry with as much armour as he dared without sacrificing too much manoeuvrability. For his horse, that meant so much barding that the animal was a weapon all its own, a four-legged battering ram capable of crashing through infantry like a boar through brush. For Rig, it meant a full helm—something he normally disdained for its restrictive field of vision—and a thick gorget that made him feel like a slave in an iron collar.

That gorget earned its place, though; an arrow that would otherwise have found his throat bounced harmlessly away, and he rode on undaunted, the first to clatter across the smooth, cold stones of Whitefish Bridge. From his vantage at the halfspan, the far bank looked thinly defended. Crimson-clad archers, of course, loosing a steady hail of arrows, but no sign of cavalry, no pikes or halberds to skewer him or drag him off his horse. Rig's pulse started to race.

Clatter turned to thud as his horse's hooves met the riverbank. Hauling on the reins, he veered through the trees in search of prey. Archers continue to harass him, but it looked as though Sadik hadn't posted a single unit of infantry, much less cavalry, to defend the bridge. The Kingswords continued to flow across, fanning out, cluttering the southern bank of the Gunnar. The enemy archers were all but defenceless, falling to the gleaming blades of Kingsword cavalry.

Rig's heart hammered in his ears.
Nobody here. Every last man of them upriver at the ford.
He'd guessed—

“General!”

Wright's voice, bright with fear. Rig risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the Onnani commander pointing downstream. Ducking out of the way of an arrow, Rig looked.

A wall of horses surged between the trees. A battalion, maybe more, a thundering horde of cavalry headed straight for them. Rig's mouth went dry.

That was when the infantry appeared.

Up out of the brush like the fae folk of legend, materialising from the shadows brandishing polearms and axes and swords. Upstream, downstream, surrounding them in a deadly arc of crimson. Every enemy soldier that should have been fording the river to the west had been here all along, lying in wait to spring a trap on the Kingsword commander general who'd been foolish enough to test his luck at the bridge. Reining in his horse, Rig uttered every curse he knew, plus a few he invented on the spot. Then he cast his eyes skyward and gave a silent prayer of thanks.

He'd guessed right.

“Close ranks!” he cried, knowing it would be too late for many. Already, the enemy was moving to cut them off at the bridge, blocking their escape. Their only hope was to tighten up, protect each other's flanks, and pray.

Enemy infantry closed in on Rig's side. The first to come at him wielded a polearm of a sort he'd never seen before: bladed on one side, hooked on the other, studded with barbs designed to snag his sword. A clever innovation—unless the rider you were facing had a bloodblade. Rig focused his gaze on one of the narrow spaces between the barbs, then swept down, letting the bloodbond guide his hand. The stroke fell perfectly, dashing the weapon in half. Throwing the now-useless bits of wood aside, the infantryman tried to flee. Rig rode him down under the destrier's hooves.

His next opponent lasted a little longer, keeping light on his feet and darting under blows like a prizefighter facing a much larger opponent. But he was armed only with a shortsword, not much of a weapon for a man on foot; Rig relieved him of his head without ever having to deflect a stroke.

He was just turning to engage another foe when something hooked him under the arm, wrenching him from the saddle. He went down hard. The impact blasted the air from his lungs, and he lay there for half a heartbeat, stunned and vulnerable. Then a flash of metal caught his eye: a halberd swinging down at him in a murderous arc.
That
brought him round quickly enough. He
threw himself into an awkward roll, cursing his heavy armour even as the blade whistled past his ear. It bit deep into the half-frozen soil, forcing the man wielding it to wrestle it free. That bought Rig just enough time to scramble to his feet. His attacker repositioned and lunged, his movements surprisingly quick; Rig barely managed to avoid being spitted, the spear tip glancing off his breastplate. He stumbled back and cast a frantic look about for his shield, but he couldn't see it anywhere.

The Oridian coiled for another lunge. Rig read it in his stance, so that when the halberd came at him, he was already moving, snapping his body sideways to let the spear tip dart past harmlessly. Now his enemy was overextended, his weapon exposed; Rig dashed off the head of the axe, spun, and hacked into his opponent's shoulder, sending him down into the rotten leaves with a scream of agony.

Rig turned to find his destrier pawing the ground restlessly, as though impatient to continue. Slinging himself back in the saddle, Rig dared a quick scan of the battlefield. They were surrounded from three sides, backed against the bridge but unable to retreat without opening themselves up. It looked very grim indeed.

Now would be a good time, Morris.

It was as if his thoughts carried on the wind. A chorus of shouts went up from the west, and there was Morris, south of the Gunnar where he had no business being, driving his battalion into the enemy's unprotected flank like a shaft loosed from hiding. So cleanly did they cut that Rig actually watched his second ride across his view, crashing through men whose polearms were pointed uselessly in the wrong direction.

Chaos erupted in the Oridian ranks. Officers shouted conflicting orders, sending their men scattering in all directions. Morris split his host and confused them still further, harrying them from two sides while Rig and his vanguard pressed the attack. A tiny, glorious space opened up between the Kingswords' rear lines and the foot of Whitefish Bridge. Rig couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder as he fought, snatching quick looks at an opportunity so irresistible, so unexpected, that he nearly lost a hand lusting after it. He jerked his arm out of the way just in time to avoid a well-placed cut; turning his horse sharply, he dealt a death blow at an awkward angle across
the destrier's neck. Coincidentally, the move pointed him straight at Whitefish Bridge. Rig paused, reins in one hand, gore-stained blade in the other.

As bold as a Black.
It had got him this far, hadn't it? He spurred his horse.

“Morris!” He couldn't get as close as he would have liked, but close enough for his second to hear over the clash of steel and the screams of dying men. “The bridge! I'm going to do it!”

Morris's favourite curse travelled across horses and men to meet him. “Aye, General!”

“Can you make it back to the ford?”

More cursing, unintelligible through the visor. “Bloody well have to, won't I?”

That hadn't been the plan, of course. Blowing the bridge had been a ruse, a way to lure Sadik's men away from the ford upstream. By pretending to be rash, Rig had tempted the Warlord to abandon his own plans in favour of capitalising on his enemy's supposed foolishness, allowing Morris and his men to cross virtually unchallenged. Rig had brought the black powder, had every intention of using it, but only as a means of covering their escape. That had been the limit of his ambitions.

But now here it was, staring him in the face: a chance to bring down the last remaining bridge, the only way for the enemy to get siege engines across the Gunnar. Rig would be damned if he squandered that chance, even if it cost him hundreds of men. “Hold them off as long as you can!” he ordered Morris before wheeling back to the bridge.

He met little resistance on the way. The Oridians swarmed about like panicked ants, no longer capable of mounting any organised manoeuvres. Rig ignored the enemies in his path, swerving to avoid them as he made his way to the rear of the Kingsword lines. He passed Commander Wright on the way, and shouting, “With me!” rounded up the Onnani knight and started across the bridge. His horse's hooves struck out a furious rhythm against the cobbles. They had only a few moments, a handful of heartbeats before the confusion righted itself and his opportunity expired.

Kingsword archers lined the north bank, bows curved, ready to rain death upon anyone in crimson. Somewhere just behind them stood the decoy wagons.

Decoys no longer.

“Black powder! In position, go!”

A moment's hesitation as the Kingswords exchanged glances, unsure if they'd heard right. Then a whip cracked, and an oxcart lumbered into view, loaded up with two barrels of black powder. By the time Rig hit the bank and turned his horse, they'd lit a torch. The soldier holding it glanced back at him, hesitating, knowing that if he put flame to fuse, he'd cut off his comrades' escape.

“Do it! The rest of you, fall back!” Rig dug in his heels and flattened himself against the destrier's neck, hoping it wouldn't throw him.

A breath passed, and another. When the blast came, it sent a sheet of wind whipping against Rig's back. His horse found a new speed, fleeing the terrible fury of a five-hundred-year-old bridge in its death throes. The rumble followed him through the trees, deep and deafening, drowning out the rattle of armour, the stutter of hooves—everything but the distant, triumphant cry of the Kingswords.

*   *   *

“And another to
Commander Morris!” cried Rollin, hoisting his flagon, “for being able to
find
the sodding ford at a flat-out gallop with a thousand howling Oridians on his arse!”

The men cheered and drank.

“And to Herwin, for giving our friends such a warm reception on the north bank!”

More cheering and drinking.

Rig hefted his own flagon from across the room, though he doubted anyone saw. They'd given up on him at last, leaving him to observe at a distance. A stretch of shadow separated him from the rest of the men. Figuratively, as well as literally.

“It's quite impressive, really,” said a musical voice in his ear. “I'd have thought they would have run out of toasts hours ago.”

Rig laughed quietly, watching as a visibly drunken Rollin tried to hoist an equally sodden Herwin onto his shoulders, only to pitch both of them over into the crowd. “When it comes to celebration, soldiers never run out of ideas.”

The priestess settled in beside him, arranging her robes around crossed legs. “If that is so, why do you sit apart from
them like this? Why not join in? You deserve this more than any man here, surely.”

Rig grunted into his flagon. “I sent a lot of men to their deaths today, Daughter. Spent their lives on a gamble.”