The Bloodforged (22 page)

He turned onto a paved road heading into the centre of town. Still no bodies, but signs of the horror perpetrated here began to mount. Blood spattered walls and pooled in the cracks between flagstones. A crossbow bolt protruded from a windowsill. A thick smear of gore left a gruesome trail from a doorway out into the street.
They moved the bodies
, Rig realised dully.

They found them in the village green, the epicentre of a wheeling gyre of crows.

“Gods have mercy.”

Rig didn't see who uttered the prayer, but whoever it was, the words caught in his throat. They caught in Rig's throat too, sharp and cold and tasting of bile.

The stack of corpses reached so high that it obscured the awnings of the local bakery. Had he climbed it, Rig could have walked through a second-storey window.
Two hundred
, his mind registered.
Maybe three.
It was hard to tell, for they scarcely looked human anymore, little more than twigs of charred meat and scorched bone tossed like so much kindling in a pile. Arms, legs, skulls with their jaws hanging open in silent agony. How many had still been alive when they'd been consigned to the flames?

“Oh dear gods. Oh
gods
 . . .”

Rig turned. What he saw emptied him, scraped out his insides and left him raw and bleeding.

The children had been separated from their parents. They hadn't been burned. Instead, they'd been put to the sword, their bodies left pristine but for the grisly wounds to throat and head and stomach. They might almost have been sleeping, so peaceful were their faces. Boys. Girls. Infants. Laid out in a long row, shoulder to shoulder, to make the counting easier. Whether they'd been forced to watch their parents burn, or the parents to watch their children butchered, was impossible to know.

Above it all, mounted on a spear and snapping majestically in the breeze, was a flag. A banner of black silk.

One of the men doubled over and vomited in the grass. Another took a halting step toward the corpses before freezing midstride, unable to continue. Rig could only stare, transfixed, at the black banner cackling and flapping like a hungry crow above the bodies of dozens of children.

Vel stepped away from the others and made her way across the green, fists clenched at her sides, spine rigidly straight. Tears streamed down her face, but her features were composed, smooth as marble. Smooth as death. She knelt at the foot of the first child, bowed her head, and began to pray.

“Morris.” The voice seemed to come from far away, for all that Rig could feel it grating in his throat. “Send a man back to the fort to fetch spades. As many as we've got.” Without waiting for a reply, he started across the field. He stared straight ahead as he passed the row of small bodies, unwilling to look. He would face that horror in a moment, but there was something he needed to do first. Grabbing the spear in both hands, he tore it from the ground and snatched the banner down. Then he carried it to a nearby smouldering building, stoked up the ash, and dropped the hateful thing onto the embers.

He stood and watched it burn, letting the smoke swirl in his eyes, letting them stream, as if they could ever be cleansed.

*   *   *

Rig leaned over
the map in his chambers, staring at the tiny black dot that marked Raynesford. An insignificant place, seen this way. Inanimate, soulless. A blot of black ink, no more.
That's not right
, he thought. Reaching for the ink bottles lined up on the
table, he grabbed the red and dipped a quill. He held it over the map, watching as the crimson liquid ran down the shaft, collecting on the sharpened tip, until a single drop fell onto the parchment. It obliterated the village of Raynesford, leaving only a bloody splash of ink.

“General.”

He didn't turn. “Not now.”

She ignored him, of course. She did as she damned well pleased, this woman. He heard the door close behind her, heard soft footsteps cross the room. “It's not your fault.”

Rig squeezed his eyes shut, ground his teeth together. “Not now, Vel. Don't make me say it again.”

“What happened out there . . . it was a tragedy beyond imagining. But it does not lie at your feet.” Her voice, always musical, had a soothing cadence to it now, as though she were preaching. It flowed over him like warm water, relaxing the tension in his shoulders. He wanted so badly to sink into it, let it overtake him, but if he did, he would surely drown.

He pushed himself away from the table, away from her. He didn't want to see her. He didn't want to see the woman who'd walked across that field, face shining with tears, to pray over the mangled bodies of children. He didn't want to see the fire in his hearth or the blood on his map. Most of all, he didn't want to see what he saw when he closed his eyes.

“This evil is Sadik's, and no other's,” she said.

“The banner,” Rig murmured, as much to himself as to her. “It was a message. For me.”

“Yes. He's taunting you, trying to—”

“It was a message, and it will not go unanswered.”

“That is just what he wants.” Rig felt a hand on his arm. “He wants to poison you. To fill you with hate and blind rage, so that you dream of nothing but vengeance—”

Rig whipped around and seized her shoulders.
“It's working.”

She flinched, but she held his gaze. “It can't. You can't let it. What was it you said to me? You don't have the luxury. And it's not who you are.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “You wouldn't say that if you could see inside my head right now, Daughter.”

Soft hands touched his face, brushed the hair back from his
temples. “That's not who you are,” she repeated in that low, soothing voice. “You are commander general of the armies of Alden.”

Warm water, flowing over wounds, easing muscles that ached from the digging of graves.

“I will see you in a few days. Promise me you will not do anything rash while I'm gone. Ardin cannot be your sign in this, General. He
cannot
. You must be guided by wisdom, not passion.”

“Eldora doesn't fancy me,” he muttered reflexively. Gods, he was so tired . . .

“She does,” Vel said softly. “Very much.” Something brushed against his forehead. When Rig opened his eyes, she was gone.

Crossing the room, he took up his greatsword and a whetstone. He dragged a chair noisily across the floor, dropped himself onto it, and unsheathed the blade. It was sharp enough to slice through silk, but he didn't care.

Putting steel to stone, he went to work.

A
lix watched, heartsick and powerless, as Qhara tended Erik's wound. The woman worked efficiently, without any obvious care for his pain, tugging at the bandage without even checking to see if it had dried to his skin overnight. Which of course it had, so that when she pulled it free, Erik winced. She grabbed an earthenware cup and poured its contents down his back, washing the wound in something sharp-smelling that made him grit his teeth. Then she smeared on some kind of poultice that seemed to consist largely of moss. Erik endured it all in silence.

“Why do you waste time on him?” Fahran sneered. “He will be dead in two days.”

Qhara threw him a dismissive glance. “If he dies, it will be because the
pasha
decreed it, not because of a festering wound.”

“What difference does it make?”

“If you have to ask, you are a fool.” Ignoring Fahran's glare, Qhara tied off Erik's bandage and put away her things.

They started out along the shore. Sakhr and his sister set a brisk pace as usual, with Fahran and Dabir bringing up the rear. All four tribesmen walked with bows at the ready. No one spoke; the only sound was the rhythmic scraping of boots on rock. To Alix's ears, it was like the tolling of the hour, each one a jarring reminder of the time they had lost, and how little remained.

They followed the path of the lake along the valley floor. The morning shadows retreated gradually up the western slope, sunlight flaring upon snow and harsh ridges of rock. Alix looked for any sign of a village, but all she saw was pristine, undisturbed nature. The lake was a jewel set in golden wildflowers, framed by a luxuriant cloak of pines. A gentle breeze coaxed its waters into shimmering pleats, disturbing the reflection of the row of rugged peaks behind. The serenity of the scene was a surreal counterpoint to the ever-tightening coil of fear that threatened to snap Alix's nerves.

Sometime near midday, they stopped. “I must check your wound,” Qhara informed Erik.

“I would rather not stop. Time is of the essence.”

She motioned for him to sit, and Erik submitted, squirming as she removed his shirt. “Wash this,” Qhara said, tossing the shirt at Fahran.

For a moment, the tribesman just stood there, a look of pure fury sweeping into his eyes. But like Erik, he did what he was told, stomping down to the water's edge.
She's punishing him for something
, Alix thought. He knew it too, and made clear his resentment at this unjust treatment, returning only moments later to hurl the shirt at Erik in a sopping ball. Then he caught Alix watching, witnessing his humiliation. She looked away, but not fast enough; he started toward her. “You,” he snarled. “Time to piss.”

“I do not need—”

“Now.” Grabbing her roughly by the elbow, he dragged her up the shore. “No stopping later, and I will not be washing your breeches.” There was nothing Alix could do but comply.

He took her deep into the woods. Alix's breath came quicker. Even supposing Fahran was genuinely concerned for her modesty, which she doubted, the pines were dense enough to offer cover after only a few steps. “I can go here,” she said, but Fahran ignored her.

When he deemed they'd gone far enough, he drew a knife and pointed at her breeches.

Alix swallowed. Gesturing away from her, she said, “You wait there?”

Fahran smiled, his green eyes glinting with malice. “You tried to kill Dabir.”

“It was . . .” Her Harrami failed her then; she could not think of a single thing to say. Not that it would have mattered.

“He is my cousin,” Fahran went on. “This must be punished.”

A twig snapped. Alix experienced a brief surge of hope—until she saw Dabir step out of the shadows. He licked his lips, glancing around anxiously. He said something terse to Fahran in their strange dialect, but his cousin only laughed.

“Good things take time,” Fahran said, using High Harrami for Alix's benefit. He pointed at her waist again, jerking the knife meaningfully.

Panic started to work its way up Alix's chest, climbing the rungs of her rib cage. Her legs were free; she might be able to knee Fahran in the groin. Maybe she could even get the knife off him. But with Dabir there, armed with bow and sword and knife . . .

Fahran didn't like her hesitation. He struck like a snake, seizing her throat and pinning her to a tree. The back of his knife glided along her temple, pushing away a stray lock of hair. He whispered something in her ear, the same word he'd used that first morning. He laughed and said it again, over his shoulder this time, inviting Dabir to agree. His cousin just smiled nervously.

He pressed the tip of his knife under her jaw; his other hand dropped to the laces at her waist.

“Wait.” Dabir took a step forward. He said something that sounded half surprised, half angry.

“What did you think I meant?” Fahran sneered. As before, he used the language Alix knew. He wanted her to understand every word.

Alix glanced helplessly at Dabir, but he just looked away. Fahran started tugging at her laces again. Alix tensed, twisting
her body so that her knee was poised to strike. She had no choice. She'd rather die. If Dabir lacked the courage to help her, maybe he would at least stay out of it . . .

A new voice spoke, cool and smooth as stone. Fahran spun to find another of his kinsmen standing in the trees, bow in hand.

Gold eyes met Alix's. “Move away from the tree,” Sakhr instructed her.

Alix started to obey, but Fahran shoved her in the chest, held her there. He said something angry in their own tongue.

“You shame us all.” Sakhr's tone was perfectly even, yet Alix could sense the cold fury beneath.

Fahran glared at him. “You do not rule me. Neither does your sister, though you both seem to forget it.”

“That is so. You are free to do as you will. And so am I.” The solemn tribesman drew his bow.

The hand against Alix's chest shook with rage. Fahran hissed something that dripped with venom.

“You humiliate yourself. You need no help from me.” Sakhr's gaze shifted to Dabir, who stood by meekly, eyes on the forest floor. “What say you, kinsman?”

Dabir's reply, whatever it was, defeated Fahran; his hand started to drop. Then he slammed Alix into the tree, cracking her head against the trunk. Looking her up and down with contempt, he said, “I would not have touched this filth. I wanted only to put her in her place.” He shoved her once more for good measure. Then he walked away, cursing a poisonous streak that required no translation.

Alix shook her head to clear it. When her gaze came back into focus, she found herself alone with Sakhr. His bow was still nocked, though lowered. The solemn tribesman said nothing; he just jerked his head in the direction of the lake.

A tremor started in Alix's hands, spreading through her body to her legs, until she was unsteady on her feet. Her head buzzed, and something that felt like a frozen sob lodged in her chest. She picked her way clumsily through the undergrowth, stumbling and staggering, back to the lake.

*   *   *

Qhara started to
pull the shirt down over Erik's head, but he jerked away. “I can do it.”

Her mouth twitched in amusement. “Perhaps, but it will hurt very much. The shirt is wet. It will stick to you.” She shrugged. “But if you wish to impress me with your toughness, I will not stop you.”

“You think highly of yourself. I simply do not wish you to touch me any more than is necessary.”

“As you like.” She moved away.

Erik started to struggle—painfully, feeling more than a little like a stubborn child—back into his wet shirt, but then Kerta was there, doing her best to help in spite of being bound at the wrists. She took advantage of the situation to whisper in his ear. “I don't like that they took Alix away. That Fahran . . . he had a look in his eye.” Erik glanced at the trees where Alix had disappeared. When he met Kerta's gaze, he saw real fear.

“She'll be all right,” he said with a conviction he did not feel.

“No talking,” Qhara said.

Moments later, Fahran stormed out of the trees, flushed with anger. Dabir followed soon after. Alix was nowhere to be seen. Qhara frowned as she watched her kinsman stalk down to the water's edge. She asked a question of Dabir, but the tribesman just shrugged awkwardly, avoiding her eye.

Erik rose, pulse quickening, but a moment later, Alix appeared, Sakhr in tow. Erik blew out a relieved breath.

It was short-lived. He could see straightaway that something was wrong. She moved haltingly, unsteady on her feet, and her skin, always pale, was bone-white. “Alix?”

“No talking,” Qhara said again.

Erik ignored the tribeswoman, making his way over to Alix.

“I'm fine,” she said, speaking to her boots.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

It was obviously a lie. “Alix—”

“Leave it, Erik.” She met his gaze, quietly exhorting him to drop it. Erik had a good idea why.
She's afraid of what you'll do. She's afraid you'll get yourself killed.

Erik turned to look at Fahran and decided that her fear was entirely justified. He stirred.

“Don't.”
Alix grabbed his arm. “Please. Nothing happened, I swear. Sakhr—”

Qhara pushed her way between them. “No talking.” Though it was the third time she had said it, her voice was surprisingly gentle. She took Alix's elbow and steered her away.

After that, their captors took no chances: Fahran, Alix, and Erik were kept as far away from each other as Qhara and Sakhr could manage. Erik could not think straight for the roar of blood in his ears. Never in his life had he craved violence as much as he did now, and the urge to act on it was almost overwhelming. A tiny, malevolent voice in his head seemed to whisper to him, spurring him on. Only Alix's warning, and the fear of what would befall her if he failed to heed it, prevented him. For once,
she
was the one restraining
him
. He had just enough sense left in his seething brain to find irony in that.

They stopped at dusk. Qhara checked his bandage again. She feared infection, though why she should be so concerned when he was very probably marching to his execution eluded him.

“The copper-haired one,” Qhara said as she peeled the bloodied bandage away. “She is your woman?”

“My brother's wife.”

“You care for her.” She glanced up, as if checking his reaction.

“Of course. She is my sister.”

A stretch of silence. Qhara dabbed at the wound, adding a new layer of poultice. “She can fight, that one.”

Erik didn't know what she was driving at, but it was something. This woman was too calculated for idle chatter. Until he could figure out what she wanted, he thought it safest to hold his tongue.

Later, after they had eaten, Dabir came over to relieve Qhara on guard duty. He settled down near Erik, drawing his curved blade from its sheath and resting it across his knees. He glanced across the fire, as if gauging the distance to the nearest pair of ears. Then, shuffling a little closer, he lowered his voice and said, “I can help you.”

Erik's eyes narrowed. “I doubt that.”

“I can. Only a little, maybe, but you need as much help as you can get.”

Erik considered the tribesman. In the shadows, he was little more than an outline, impossible to read.
There is some trap here
, Erik thought.
Still
, another part of him argued,
it can't
hurt to play along for a moment, so long as you're careful.
“How can you help me?”

Dabir shot another furtive look over his shoulder, then dropped his voice still further. “The
pasha
will listen to testimony from all of us. Then they will decide your fate. For the right price, I can give you good testimony. Say that you were a noble prisoner, that you did not struggle.”

“But that would be a lie, and the others would know it.”

“Not a lie, not for you. It was not you who attacked us. You were only afraid for your woman.”

“She is
not
my woman,” Erik said through gritted teeth—though of course it could not possibly matter.

“I will speak for you, for the right price.”

“You have said that twice now. But what do I have to offer you? You have already taken everything I have.”

“Not everything. You must have some gold on you, hiding in a pocket somewhere.”

Erik almost laughed aloud. “No. I do not carry a purse.” Not once in his life, though it would not do to admit it.

“What about the others? One of you must have some.”

He shrugged. “You might find some sewn into the lining of one of the saddlebags.” Such precautions were common enough among fighting men. Of the half dozen or so surviving saddlebags, it seemed a safe bet that at least one had a few coins stashed away.

Dabir sprang to his feet, grinning. He went straight to the horse, in plain view of everyone, and began rifling through the bags.
After all that trouble to be surreptitious.
Erik had a feeling he had been tricked, though he could not imagine why. If the tribesmen had wanted to know where the gold was kept, they could have just asked. Why should he hide it from them, when they had already confiscated everything he had?

“Here,” Dabir called triumphantly, raising a fistful of coins.

“Let me see.” Sakhr collected one and brought it close to the fire. He turned it over, examining it in the firelight. “You were right, little sister,” he said, adding something else Erik could not follow.

Qhara took the coin and peered at it. She glanced up at Erik, then back at the coin. When she looked up again, her eyes met his.

He understood now.

You fool, Erik.

He had known it was a trap, yet he had walked into it anyway, as reckless as Alix, as mindless as a thrall.
What's happened to you, damn you?
First his barely controlled rage, and now this. He had been so unmoored lately, adrift in a heaving sea of emotions he could not define, let alone weather.