The Bloodforged (18 page)

The other one.
Erik hoped they meant Frida, and that they never found her. Qhara, he decided, must be the woman he had spoken to the night before.

Fahran gestured at Erik and said something about his tongue.

“Does he?” Sakhr's golden gaze fell on Erik. “Is that common in the imperial lands?” he asked in High Harrami.

“Fairly common,” Erik lied. It wouldn't do to let on that he was anyone special.

“Is that so?” Sakhr eyed him shrewdly. “All of you know it, then?”

Kerta spoke up immediately. “Of course. Except Alfred here, who is from a humble family and does not read or write.”

Erik said a silent prayer of thanks—for Kerta's quick wits, and her nearly flawless accent.

“And you?” The tribesman turned to Alix.

“Enough.”

“A pleasant surprise. It makes things easier.” Sakhr turned to Fahran and rattled off a set of instructions, pointing at the captured Kingsword horse, which was now serving as a pack animal. Fahran scowled, but did not object.

A clear pecking order here
, Erik thought. Fahran over Dabir, Sakhr over them both. He wondered where the woman, Qhara, fit into it. He would find out soon enough, and he would file that information away too.

They struck out onto the path, heading—Erik glanced at the sun—east. The realisation hit him like a body blow. After everything they had been through . . . So many dead, so far behind schedule . . . And now they were retracing their steps, moving
away
from their goal. “How far is it to reach the
pasha
?” he asked, doing his best to keep the urgency from his voice.

Sakhr glanced over his shoulder. “Save your strength. I will not tell you anything that puts my village at risk.”

“We pose no risk to your village. We are on our way to Ost.”

“To commune with the
mustevi
, yes. That is obvious.”

“Mustevi.”
Erik shook his head. “I do not know this word.”

“It means those who impose their will on others. There is no word for it in the language of Ost. This is ironic, no?” Sakhr glanced back again; the eyes that met Erik's were deep-set and clever.

“We have no interest in Harrami politics. We are here to—”

“Save your strength,” Sakhr said again. “Save your words for the
pasha
.”

Erik's hands curled into fists. There must be
something
he could say to this man, something that might convince him they were not a threat. “The
pasha
 . . . how will they decide what to do with us?”

Sakhr shrugged. “They will ask you questions. Then they will decide. It will not take long—there are only two choices.”

“Death,” Erik guessed.

“That is one choice, yes.”

“And the other?”

“If they decide you are no threat to us, that you did not come here to aid the
mustevi
, they will send you home.”

Erik swallowed down a cry of dismay. “We cannot go home. You do not understand. It is a matter of life and death, not just for us, but—”

Sakhr turned abruptly, looming over him with his imposing height. “You are lucky to be alive. We could have killed you. Some of us
wanted
to kill you.” He looked pointedly at Fahran. “You are still breathing because Qhara insisted. She knows the
pasha
will want to see you, to learn whether you are alone or merely the first of many. If you are lucky again,
very
lucky, the
pasha
will spare you. Do not insult your gods by demanding more.” So saying, he continued along the path.

Do not insult your gods.
Erik had the inescapable feeling that he already had, for whichever way this went, he would never make it to Ost. He would never convince King Omaïd to enter the war. He had failed, and his men had paid the price in blood.

“T
hat,” said Commander Morris, wiping the back of his hand over a bloodied mouth, “was dirty.”

“There's no etiquette in war, Morris. No whinging, either.” Laughter rippled through the handful of onlookers. Rig rapped his wooden sword against the edge of his shield. “Let's go.”

Morris spat blood onto the dirt and squared his feet. His lip curled into a half snarl, a look Rig had learned to respect. Like his commander, Morris fought best when he was in a bit of a temper.
Probably shouldn't goad him, then.
The thought came too late to do Rig any good. A family trait, that.

Morris circled him, closing a little distance with each step. He was taller than Rig, and stronger with a one-handed blade, taking full advantage of his reach. Rig would have felt better with his greatsword, but he'd opted for the blade and buckler today, precisely because he was less comfortable with it. He had a feeling he was going to pay for that choice.

Morris lunged. Rig raised his shield, but at the last moment, Morris reversed the blow and came up under, forcing Rig to twist awkwardly away. He tried to take advantage of his momentum to jab at the neck, but Morris anticipated him and danced aside. Rig carried himself through the turn to come full about, his back to the fort. He barely had time to dig in before Morris was on him again, cutting across his body to come at Rig longside. Wooden swords met with a mighty
crack
. They traded blows, feet shuffling, throwing up dust as they circled and dove, thrust and parried. Sweat stung Rig's eyes and salted his lips; his breath rasped harshly in his ears.
The lead weight in his hand grew heavier, and his right thigh started to protest the lunging.

If there was a better way to get the blood flowing in the morning, Rig hadn't found it.

Admittedly, it lost some of its charm when Morris rang one off his rib cage, hard enough to send a jolt through his whole body. “Nice cut,” he grated between clenched teeth. Morris didn't even pause. He came at Rig's injured side, hoping to score another in the same place. That got Rig's blood up. He deflected, but it still hurt like hell. He spat out a curse and went hunting for revenge. He found it in a blow that landed in just the right spot to send a spasm of numbness through Morris's arm; it dangled for a moment, useless. A moment was all Rig needed: He drove his shield into Morris's shoulder and hooked his foot out from under him. The tall man went down with a crash of armour and a blistering oath.

Laughter from the onlookers, men thumping the rail in approval.

Rig braced his hands on his thighs, panting. “Are we done?”

“Depends. Do you want me to be able to take a piss without bleeding?”

Rig grinned. “Your piss is your business, but it would be nice to be able to get on a horse later.” He offered a hand.

Morris took it. Then he swept Rig's feet out from under him, bringing him down hard.

“Dirty,” Morris growled.

Rig grimaced and clutched at his bruised ribs. “Point taken.”

They hobbled over to the rain barrel. Morris washed first, dipping his hands in and throwing a sheet of water over his face. Rig started to dip his own hands, then changed his mind and plunged his whole head in. He came up dripping like a shaggy black dog.

“The next man'll thank you,” Morris said dryly.

“Commander general's prerogative.”

They headed for the stables. In the foreyard, cavalrymen had already begun saddling their horses, readying for the morning's mission. Rig wanted a look at the upstream ford, to make sure his orders had been carried out precisely. It had been four days since the battle at Whitefish Bridge, and though he doubted the Warlord would be ready to strike again so soon,
he wasn't taking any chances.
Not that there's anything to be done if he's as ruthless as they say.
Rig could set up whatever defences he liked, but if Sadik was willing to sacrifice enough of his men, he would get across eventually. Rig simply didn't have the manpower to stop him. He needed that fleet. Needed the Harrami too, though it pained him to admit it. He thought of his brother-in-law in Onnan City, of Erik and Alix in the mountains.
Hope you're getting the job done, you lot, or we're finished.

In a corner of the yard, Vel was holding service. Men gathered around her, heads bowed, listening to the rise and fall of her musical voice. Rig couldn't hear much at this distance, especially with the wooden mask muffling her words, but it sounded like Erromanian. Scanning the cluster of men, he recognised a few faces. “Look at that,” he said to Morris. “Almost as many of ours as Wright's.” In the beginning, the Kingswords had given the Onnani priestess a wide berth. Lately, though, her following had grown, apparently to the point where she felt obliged to hold her services in Erromanian. Vel's powers of persuasion, or the men's growing fear of what lay ahead? A little of both, perhaps. “If she keeps up at this rate, the priests are going to get jealous.” He was only half joking; already, Reverend Son Orton—also a disciple of Eldora—had come to him complaining about Vel. Apparently, he didn't like having to compete with a foreigner for his following.

Morris eyed the crowd darkly. “I don't like it, General. It's not natural, having a priestess around.”

Rig laughed. “Afraid she'll turn them all into rats?”

“I don't see what's funny about it. You and I have seen priestly witchcraft with our own eyes.”

“Fair to say Madan was exceptional.”

Morris grunted. “And then there's the rest of it.”

It took Rig a moment to figure out what he meant. “Ah. It's her feminine wiles you fear.”

“You know as well as I do what goes on in the clergy.”

“Why, Morris, I had no idea you were such a prude.”

“It's nothing to me what religious types get up to in the dark of night. They can commune with their gods any damned way they please. When they become a distraction for the men, that's when I have a problem.”

“Haven't heard you complaining about the priests.”

Morris gave him a flat look. “A sweating fat man and a balding old codger. Not likely to distract the women, let alone the men. And then there's
her
.” He gestured at Vel's undeniably lovely form. “Any surprise her following is growing?”

“What do you suggest I do, Morris? Forbid the men from seeking spiritual solace? That would go over well, I'm sure.”

“Send her home.”

“Commander Wright would be pleased.”

“I don't give a damn what he thinks, begging your pardon, General. And neither should you.”

Rig stopped, regarding his second with narrowed eyes. “I'm not buying it. You might be an ill-tempered bastard, but you're no bigot. What's this really about?”

Morris glanced around uneasily. Lowering his voice, he said, “There is a spy among us, General.”

“I know.”

He frowned. “You never said anything.”

“I figured it was obvious. You think it's Vel, I take it?”

“Awfully suspicious that word of our surprise attack gets out almost the moment it's planned. She and Wright were the only other people in the room.”

“It's occurred to me.” Rig shot a look at the other man and said no more. Morris got the message; he dropped it.

The stablemaster met them near the gate. “Which one will it be today, General?”

“Alger, I think. He acquitted himself well at the bridge.”

The stablemaster nodded and withdrew to prepare the destrier. A pair of squires hurried over with Rig's weapons, while a third tended to Morris. Commander Konrad arrived to discuss the formation. When the storm of preparation cleared, Rig was surprised to find Vel leading her own horse out of the stables.

“Good morning, Daughter,” he said, a little warily. “Going for a ride?”

“I thought to accompany you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Unless you object?”

Rig started to do just that—until he saw the sullen look Morris was directing his way. That annoyed him. He wasn't going to be bullied, least of all by his own second. “No objection,” he said, staring Morris down. “So long as you remember that this is a
military operation. I can't guarantee your safety, and I can't have you in the way if something unpleasant happens.”

Vel bowed her head. “Understood, General.”

They rode out with an escort of twenty knights, a formation light enough to be almost symbolic. Rig didn't see any point in wasting good men on escort duty; they were put to better use defending strategic locations like the ford. Morris started out riding abreast of Rig, but when Vel fell in beside them, Rig's second decided he would rather be in the vanguard; he spurred his horse and moved away.

He left behind an awkward silence. It endured for a long while, until Vel said, “This is the place.”

“Sorry?”

“That day, on the road. This is where I found you.”

Rig glanced around. “I suppose it is.”

“It was much colder then.” As if to illustrate the point, she unfastened her cloak and slid it off, revealing . . . rather a lot, actually. The neckline of her robes swept off her shoulders and plunged down her back, exposing a smooth, dusky expanse of flawless skin.

“You're staring again, General.”

There was no point denying it; he
had
been staring. It had been a long time since he'd seen that much of a woman's back, and he'd always found that particular part of the female form incredibly alluring. The sleek ridges of the shoulder blades, the furrow of the spine, a delicate trail of promise curving all the way down to those wonderful dimples at the base . . .

Still staring, Black.

Rig laughed and looked away. “My apologies. It seems that something drew my eye.”

“Does my attire shock you?”

You'd like that, wouldn't you?
Aloud, Rig said, “I do wonder how you manage to be warm enough.”

“The mere proximity to you is enough to warm me.”

“Please.”

“I could prove it, if you like.” She flashed him a seductive smile.

He left that alone. Eventually, she'd learn that her efforts to scandalise him were a waste of time.

“Thank you for allowing me to come along,” she said. “I
needed to get out of there. I have never coped particularly well with being cooped up in one place for too long. Though”—she glanced at the surrounding trees—“I'm not sure this is helping. Do you not find it awfully close in this wood? A little . . . what's the word . . . stifling?”

“These woods are keeping us alive, Daughter. If we were out in the open, Sadik would take us all the more easily.”

“I know that, of course. I just miss the sea. I miss its breath on my skin, its sigh in my ears. I have never been without it for so long.” A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows, as if she were annoyed with herself for divulging so much. “You would not understand.”

“I might. I feel the same about the mountains sometimes.”

“I don't see how it could be the same.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“The mountains are practically the opposite of the sea.” She paused, as if waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, she went on, “A mountain range is a barrier. A wall. The sea is our path to eternity.” When Rig still didn't respond, she frowned. “You are very sure of yourself, aren't you?”

He laughed. “How have I offended you, Daughter? By not arguing with you?”

“You haven't
offended
me. I am trying to make conversation, and you just . . . sit there.”

“My mother taught me never to disagree with a lady. Especially one who plainly doesn't like to be disagreed with.”

“Ah.” Vel straightened in her saddle. Rig had a sinking feeling he'd just stepped in it. “You will not engage me because I'm a woman.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

Rig growled under his breath. This woman's insecurities were
not
his problem; he would be damned if he let himself be goaded into a fight. “Just stop it, all right? You've been trying to catch me out since we met. Get me to prove what a spoiled aristocrat I am, how much I disapprove of you. It's not going to work. You're used to being judged—I get it. But it's nothing to do with me. You want to shield yourself with righteous indignation, that's your business, but leave me out of it.”

The rest of the journey passed in icy silence. Vel stared
straight ahead, spine rigid, shoulders square, seemingly oblivious to everything around her. When they reached the ford, she remained astride her horse while Rig and Morris surveyed the defences. She feigned disinterest as Commander Herwin explained his preparations, pretending not to notice the nervous looks he kept shooting her way.
Morris was right
, Rig thought.
I shouldn't have let her come.
She made the men uncomfortable. That might not be right, but it was a fact. One she was all too accustomed to, had learned to expect as a foregone conclusion, and so armed herself preemptively against it. Rig understood that, but it didn't make her any easier to deal with.

The ride back was equally pleasant, especially once it started to rain. Between the cold, Vel's silence, and the sadly inadequate timber palisades he'd just surveyed, Rig was in a foul humour by the time they reached the fort. His boots had hardly hit the dirt before he stalked off to his quarters for a change of clothing and some warmed wine. That went some way to improving his mood, so when the knock came, he managed to receive it with something approaching civility. “Who is it?”

“Vel.”

He swore under his breath. So much for his mood clearing up. He didn't bother to disguise his annoyance when he opened the door. “What is it, Daughter?”