The Bloodforged (21 page)

Erik had no choice now; he lunged toward Alix, not even sure what he intended to do. It didn't matter; he never got the chance. An arrow slammed into the back of his shoulder. He fell to one knee, pain exploding through the left side of his body. Another arrow bounced off the rocks in front of Kerta, drawing her up short.

Alfred had managed to get on top of Fahran and was raining blows down on the tribesman's face. He didn't even see the arrow that took him; he was dead before he hit the ground.

Alix was oblivious to the danger. She had her arms around Dabir's neck, boots planted in the small of his back, strangling him with the ropes at her wrists.

Erik heard a bow creak behind him. “Stop!” He staggered to his feet, throwing himself between Alix and the weapon trained on her heart.
“Alix, stop!”

For a moment, he thought she hadn't heard. He thought the bow creaked again. He thought his heart ceased to beat. Then Alix yanked her arms away and shoved Dabir with her boot, leaving him to splutter and cough on his hands and knees.

Footfalls on the rocks. Erik turned to find Qhara, bow in hand, naked from the waist up, striding up the shore. “Do not hurt her,” he said. “Please. It was the other one who started it. We had no choice. It was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake,” Qhara agreed icily. “A very bad one.”

“O
ur best information puts them in this area,” Rig said, tracing a circle, “but that's approximate to say the least.”

Vel's eager gaze devoured the map. “Understandable. If your information was better, you would not need me.”

“Our scouts have had most luck following this route. There's a game trail through the brush on the far side of the river. Follow it south for about half a day. That should get you far enough clear of the enemy's lookouts that you can swerve back to the highway, about here.”

“At which point,” Morris put in, “you are a woman alone on the highway, after dark, with the wrong hair colour.”

Rig threw a wry look over his shoulder. “Why, Morris, one would almost think you disapproved of this venture.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Vel said. “It seems like the perfect opportunity to be rid of me.”

Morris shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Beside him, Wright forced an awkward laugh. “Joking aside, Daughter, the commander does have a point.” Like Morris, he stood back from the map, arms folded in a picture of reluctance—though for very different reasons. “I'm afraid I must renew my protest. This is too dangerous.”

“War is dangerous, Commander Wright. Besides, my story is entirely plausible. I would hardly be the first Onnani missionary seeking to soothe spiritual woes in wartime. Or perhaps I am merely heading to Timra to view the relics of the Holy Virtues, as my own brother once did.”

“That might help you avoid suspicion with the enemy,” Rig said, “but it won't matter a damn to highwaymen or wandering soldiers looking for trouble. On top of which, the gods only know what these Resistance types are like. Don't be under any illusions, Daughter. This
will
be dangerous. If I thought I had a choice, I wouldn't ask it of you.”

“You didn't. I asked it of you, remember?”

“
I
remember,” Morris said under his breath.

Rig had had enough. “You're dismissed, Commander.”

Morris saluted stiffly and withdrew.

“He doesn't trust me,” Vel said when he had gone. “How surprising.”

“Commander Morris will provide any and all assistance you require. And when you return, he'll be the first in line to congratulate you on a job well done.”
Or I'll have his ball sack for a coin purse.

“Second in line, perhaps,” said Wright, laying a hand on
the priestess's shoulder. “This is a very brave thing you're doing, Daughter. May Eldora be your sign.”

She inclined her head gravely. “Thank you, Commander. I will see you in a few days.”

Wright had not even closed the door before the childlike eagerness returned to Vel's eyes. She leaned back over the map, the corners of her mouth curling just short of a smile. Rig recalled her fervent words the other night, her desire to make a “contribution.” Still, he wished she didn't look
quite
so keen. It fed the doubt that gnawed at him.

“You look worried, General.”

“I'll say this, I never would have guessed when we met that day on the road that we'd end up here, you and I.”

“Here?” She smiled archly. “Alone, in your quarters?” Her enthusiasm was getting to her; the spark in her eyes was almost a flame. “I would not have guessed it either, though if we had known a little about each other, perhaps it would not have been such a leap. We are both of us risk takers.” She paused, regarding him curiously. “Tell me something. Why did you conceal your identity that day on the road?”

“I didn't conceal it. I just didn't see the need to mention it. You'd already guessed I was an officer.”

“And yet you were no mere officer. I had no idea I was in the presence of such an eminent personage. Commander general of the king's armies, and a banner lord besides!” She fanned her face mockingly. “Why, I practically tremble in awe.”

“Obviously,” Rig said. “Now if I could just get you to tremble quietly, we'd be getting somewhere.”

Her gaze travelled lingeringly down his body. “Oh, but I'm quite sure you
could
, General.”

That one got him; he felt himself flush beneath his beard. “Bloody hells, woman, you're relentless.”

She laughed, victorious. “At last! I knew it was possible! Even brutes have their limits.” She drew in close, face angled playfully to his, gazing up at him through those impossibly long lashes. Rig didn't retreat; he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. “Am I being too forward for you?” she purred, her hand sliding up his back.

He snorted softly. “You just don't quit, do you?”

“I thought you admired my persistence. Besides, things are going my way today. When the wind is in your favour, keep sailing.”

“Enough of this, Vel, I'm not—”

She stopped his lips with her own.

Rig froze, momentarily stunned. It had never occurred to him that she would take her little game this far. He'd already given her what she wanted. What was she trying to
prove
anyway? She took his face in her hands, pulling his head down toward her, her tongue teasing his lips. He scowled, sharp words forming in his mind. Would she never stop trying to provoke him? What did she think he was going to do, run away screaming?

He grasped her arms, intending to push her away, but the softness of her skin beneath his callused fingers distracted him. His hands rebelled, refusing to quit the field, revelling in the feel of her. Her scent, spicy and unmistakably feminine, filled his nose. He realised in that moment just how long it had been.

You don't have time for this
, he told himself.
If it's been a while, that's because there's a
war
going on. Besides, she's only trying to goad you into . . .

Oh, sod it.

Rig's arms went around her, his lips parting to let her in. She gave a little sigh as her tongue darted into his mouth. It was about then that his mind stopped working altogether. He was totally unprepared for the
need
that ignited in him, roaring through his veins like a flame put to paraffin. His grip tightened. His kiss grew hungry. She answered with a vehemence that spurred him on still more, prompting a telltale throb below his waist. He had just enough sense left to realise that things were going to get very out of hand very quickly if he didn't do something about it. He broke away; it was like coming up for air after a brush with drowning. She was breathing hard too, but flush with triumph.

“Work to do,” he said gruffly, turning away. He leaned over the map and stared until his eyes watered.

“Of course. I should leave you to it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her touch her fingers to her lips, a wondering smile on her face.
The beard
, he thought. She'd probably never kissed a man with facial hair before.

When he thought it was safe, he looked up. “Good luck, Vel.”

“And to you, General.”

She left him leaning over his map, half stunned, still riding the wild current of his blood. He couldn't decide what amazed him more—how brazenly she'd ambushed him, or how thoroughly he'd enjoyed it.

It really had been
far
too long.

*   *   *

The knock startled
him out of a fitful sleep. Rig couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming, but the race of his heart and the sweat on his brow suggested it had been battle. Well, either that, or . . . He swept the covers off.

Not battle, then.

He swung his legs over the bed and padded to the door. Opening it a crack, he found Morris, looking grim. “What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“About an hour before dawn, General. I'm sorry to wake you, but we have a fresh report from the scouts, and it's . . .” Morris hesitated, his mouth tightening. “It's disturbing.”

The sleep fled Rig in an instant. “Let me get some clothes on.”

He found Morris and the watch officer in the common room, speaking in subdued tones with a pair of scouts. The women were fresh from the field, judging from the dust on their leathers, and they looked pale and exhausted. They must have pushed themselves hard to reach the fort at this hour; they hadn't been due back until noon. Even so, they straightened when they saw Rig approaching, heads high and shoulders back.

“What news?” he asked.

“These scouts have just returned from Raynesford, General,” Morris said.

“Raynesford.” He closed his eyes, pictured the map. He'd pored over it for so long that he had memorised nearly every feature for leagues on either side of the border. “Upriver from Harriston. Near the monument.”

Morris nodded. “Seems the enemy crossed the Gunnar there.”

Rig felt the blood drain from his face. “I thought that ford was impassable in spring.”

“It is. On foot.”

“We think they took a small boat, General,” one of the scouts put in, her voice trembling a little. At first, Rig took it for nerves, but then he noticed how bloodshot her eyes were. She'd been crying.

“Why would they do that? It would take them a week to get a force of any significance across.”

“But only hours to get a few dozen across.” Morris's voice had started to shake too—with rage.

“A few dozen? I don't . . .” Rig looked from one face to the next, settling finally on the ashen, downcast features of the woman who'd spoken. “What's your name, scout?”

“Odile, General.”

“What did you see, Odile?”

“We saw . . . They . . .” Her eyes started to fill, but she held it together. “They butchered them, General. The enemy. They crossed the river and they . . .”

“The whole village,” Morris said. “Men, women, and children.”

The air left Rig in a gust. His gaze fell, unseeing, to the floor. “How many?” The question was barely more than a whisper.

Odile shook her head. “We couldn't . . . A hundred, at least. Maybe more. They burned them, and they—”

Her fellow scout choked out a sob, her face collapsing into her hands.

Frost pricked along every vein, every nerve, in Rig's body. It seized the muscles in his jaw, curled his hands into fists. He whirled away from the sight of the weeping scouts, started across the room in great ringing strides. When he spoke again, his voice sounded feral, even to his own ears. “Get my horse.”

When he reached the courtyard, he found that Morris had anticipated him, as usual. Alger was saddled and ready, and a dozen cavalrymen were already mounted up. They had obviously heard what happened; a dark silence weighed over the courtyard.

“General.”

Rig scarcely registered the sound.
I should order someone to see to those scouts. Brandy, if we've got any left . . .

“General!”

He spun to find Vel standing beside her horse. Something
in his look must have alarmed her, because she paled and retreated a step. “What . . . What has happened?”

It was Morris who answered, appearing at Rig's elbow. “A massacre upriver.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Farika's mercy. Where?”

“Raynesford.” The word emerged in that same feral growl, ground out between Rig's teeth. He turned away and headed to his horse, mounting up abruptly enough that the destrier shifted uneasily.

“General.” The priestess again, her hand on Alger's bridle.

“
What
, Vel?”

She swallowed, but held her ground. “I must come with you. Someone must pray for the dead.”

“You ride for Andithyri. You should already be gone.”

“I will go tomorrow. One more day won't make a difference.” In the torchlight, her eyes shone with a fervid light. “Please, General. Someone must pray for them.”

Rig couldn't be bothered to argue; he could hardly hear past the blood pounding in his ears. He put his heels to his horse, forcing her to stumble back out of the way. “Do what you will.” He rode out the gate and into darkness.

*   *   *

Dawn soaked the
sky in blood, seeped between the columns of smoke that rose from the blackened ruins of Raynesford. The crows had already started to arrive, drifting languidly on the warm updrafts from the smouldering husks below. Rig squinted up at them, half tempted to shoot them down one by one. But he knew it would not slake his fury, not by even a small measure. It was not the crows' blood he craved.

The village had been a significant one, by the looks of it. Bigger than anything between here and the citadel, at least. Mud brick and thatch, mostly, but one or two paved streets, a few stone buildings topped with timber.
A hundred, at least
, the scout had said. It would be more, Rig judged. Yet he couldn't see them. Every doorway he stepped through, every window he peered into, empty. The bodies had been burned, obviously—Rig's stomach was sick with the smell of them—but even so, something should remain. Charred flesh. Blackened bones.
Something.
Yet he could find no sign. Not even a single dog or panicked chicken.

Here and there, flames still gnawed at scraps of timber, but they had by and large spent their fury. It could not have been much past dark when the enemy fell on Raynesford. Families would have been sitting down for dinner, or gathered in the temple to mark the changing of the guard between Rahl and Olan. They would have had no warning, and no chance.

“There.” Morris's voice was barely a murmur, yet it might as well have been a shout in the strained silence. He gestured with his boot at a dark stain in the dirt, sending flies swirling.

“Here too, General,” said Commander Gerton, leaning through a burnt-out doorway.

A chill wind sighed through the hollowed shell of the village. It seemed to carry whispers to Rig's ears, echoes of the lives ripped from this place. He squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging smoke and kept moving.