The Bloodforged (26 page)

“A fight.”

He blew out a breath. “Bloody
hells
, Morris. I was sure you were about to tell me there was another massacre!”

“Sorry, General.”

“Men fight,” Rig said irritably. “Why do you need me?”

“I can handle it if you like, but I thought you'd want to hear about this. It wasn't just some ordinary fisticuffs, General. The man who got the worse end of it might not make it through the night.”

“What?”
As though they didn't have problems enough, his men were beating each other to the brink of death? “What in the Nine Domains were they fighting about?”

Morris avoided his eye. “From what I gather, General . . .” He cleared his throat. “It may have been about you.”

Rig stared.

“That is, about Raynesford.”

Swearing under his breath, Rig said, “Show me.”

The soldier who'd done the beating was a thick, ruddy fellow with arms like tree trunks. He stood in the courtyard at the centre of a ring of soldiers, scowling at the ground as though it were the source of all his problems. The scowl melted away when Rig appeared before him, replaced by a look that managed to be both sheepish and stubborn. “General,” he said, saluting.

Rig gave him a long, hard look, one he hoped even Arran Green would have approved of. “Name?”

“Hagan, General.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Hagan shrugged like a sulky adolescent. “Soldiers' fight, General. That's all.”

“Soldiers' fight. I see. So you figured the enemy didn't outnumber us enough, you wanted to lend a hand?”

The man flushed and looked away. Nearby, a clutch of soldiers muttered angrily, one of them spitting in the dust. Mates of the beaten man, presumably.

“What provoked it?”

Hagan shifted uncomfortably. “Rather not say, General.”

“I don't give a flaming fuck what you'd rather. I asked you a question.”

Hagan flushed again. “It's only that . . . What Arch said . . . the thing that really got my blood up, I mean . . . It wasn't respectful about you, General. Wouldn't want to repeat it.”

“Do I look like the sensitive sort to you?”

The man smiled nervously. “Not really, no, General. More that I'm a bit worried you'll break me in half, General.”

“If I'd wanted my sword polished, I'd have said so. Don't make me ask again.”

Hagan's eyes travelled the compass of the courtyard. Lowering his voice, he said, “Called you a coward, General. Said we should be taking it to the Warlord, after what he done. Said you didn't have the spine.”

“That's it?”

“More or less.”

“And for this, you thought he deserved to die?”

The man shuffled in the dirt. “Didn't mean for it to get that far. Just got my blood up is all.”

Rig motioned disgustedly for the man to be taken to the prisoner's pen. He'd decide what to do with him later. Right now, he had bigger problems on his hands. Turning his back on the courtyard, he motioned Morris in close. “You think that sentiment is going around?”

“The men love you, General.”

“I don't give a pig's ass about their love, Morris. I need their loyalty, and not just to me. We can't have division in the ranks. It's poison.”

“With you there, General.”

“Just an isolated incident, do you think?”

“Hard to say. We've talked about the officers, but the rank and file . . . not my cohort anymore, I'm afraid.”

Rig nodded absently. He wished Dain Cooper were here.
The Onnani knight, newly promoted, still had a strong network with the common men, and could always be counted on for a weather check. Rig hadn't realised how much he relied on that until this moment. A commander couldn't afford to be oblivious to the mood of his army. Blindness like that could be fatal—for all of them.

“Division in the ranks is bad enough,” Morris said, “but I'm worried about discipline too. Herwin, especially. He's a good man, but hot-blooded. All alone up there by the ford, and Raynesford on his patch . . .”

“Yeah.”

“If he takes it into his head to avenge Raynesford, he'll have his arse handed to him, and the ford will be Sadik's.”

“And we'll be short a thousand men.” Rig swore again, ran a hand roughly over his beard. He felt so gods-damned
futile
, sitting here, waiting for Sadik to strike—or for his men to march to suicide. He couldn't even know whether relief was on the way, whether Liam or Erik had secured the aid the Kingswords so badly needed. He might as well have been shackled to a post, forced to watch as the enemy rode past on their way to slaughter and burning.

For a single, glorious hour in his bedchamber, Rig had been free. So much for that.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Vel appeared in the courtyard. She took in the scene, tense knots of soldiers standing around muttering angrily. “What's happened, General?” She lowered her voice. “Do we have a problem?”

“Yeah,” Rig said grimly, “we really do.”

A
lix gazed out over the valley, her heart in her throat. Below, the world seemed to spill away, flat as far as the eye could see, and no doubt farther. Behind her, the craggy peaks of the Broken Mountains clustered together like the
pasha
, looming over her, pressing at her back, demanding that she move on.

As if on cue, Sakhr said, “Go now.” He inclined his head at the valley, like a dog herding a reluctant sheep.

After everything we've been through
, Alix thought. She glanced over at Erik. He looked out over the valley too, his expression unreadable.
What must be going through his mind right now . . .

Qhara came to stand beside him. “There it is, Imperial Erik. Does it not bring you joy to see it?”

“Under other circumstances, perhaps. At the moment, all I feel is determination.”

“In that case, I wish you luck. I think you will need it.”

She offered her arm, and he clasped it. “I think you are right.”

“I see your escort,” Sakhr said, shielding his eyes. “Fifty horses.” He made a noise of contempt. “As though fifty
mustevi
would be enough if we meant you harm.”

He handed over their weapons. Alix let out a long breath as she strapped her bloodblade to her waist, feeling instantly stronger with its reassuring weight at her side. “Thank you,” she said. Lowering her voice, she added, “For the other day, too.”

Sakhr shrugged. “I did what was necessary to avoid an ugly situation. If I had not intervened, you would have killed him.”

That wasn't what she'd expected him to say. “I would certainly have tried,” she admitted.

“He would have deserved it, perhaps, but he is still my kinsman.”

There was nothing more to say, so she just nodded. “Shall we go, Your Majesty? King Omaïd awaits.”

“Tell him we said hello,” Qhara said dryly.

“When you return,” Sakhr said, “we will ensure your safe passage through our lands, just as the
pasha
have decreed.”

“And what of the other tribes?” Erik asked. “I presume there will be consequences for defying the Council of Twelve.”

“There will be,” Sakhr said, “but they are not your concern. If you take the lower pass as instructed, you will remain on our lands nearly all the way to your border.”

“In that case,” said Erik, “I look forward to seeing you again.”

Sakhr had already turned away. “You will not see us, but we will see you.” A moment later, both he and his sister were gone.

“I can't believe we're really here,” Kerta said. “I was sure we would never . . .” She trailed off, swallowing.

“We haven't,” Erik said. “Not yet. Hurry now, we have lost enough time.”
Maybe too much.
He didn't need to finish the thought; it polluted the air like the smell of carrion.

It took almost three hours to reach the valley floor, and by the time they did, Alix's thighs felt like they were made of sponge cake. She despaired of sitting a horse properly, but compared to what they'd just been through, the worry seemed downright decadent.

They emerged from the trees onto the banks of a foaming river swollen with snowmelt. Their escort must have spotted them somewhere on the slope, because a pair of horsemen awaited them on the riverbank, with three more horses in tow. Both riders dismounted as the weary trio approached, their tall frames folding into bows. “Your Majesty,” said the taller of the two in Erromanian. “We had begun to fear the worst.” Green eyes scanned the three of them, took in their haggard appearances. “Though perhaps that fear was not entirely unfounded.”

“No indeed,” Erik said. “We had a difficult time through the mountains.”

A difficult time.
Alix almost laughed aloud.

“We were fifteen when we crossed the border.” Erik gestured at the three of them. “You see what remains.”

“In that case, Your Majesty, we are even more overjoyed to see you safely delivered, and to welcome you to the Kingdom of Harram, in the name of His High Lordship King Omaïd.” The man laid a hand on his breast and dipped his head. “May I offer you some water? Something to eat?”

Erik brushed the offer aside; he had heavier concerns. “Have you any news from Alden?”

“Last we heard, Your Majesty, there was no change. That was two days ago.”

Erik sagged in relief. In that instant, he looked ten years older.

“My name is Aarash,” the Harrami said. “It will be my honour to lead you to Ost. This way, please.”

It was late afternoon by the time they joined the Harrami camp west of the river, and with only a few hours of sunlight left, there was little point in packing up. Though Erik was impatient to reach Ost, even he could not deny that the rest would be blissful. “We should get as much sleep as we can,” he told Alix and Kerta. “As difficult as these past weeks have been, what lies ahead may be more trying still. Diplomacy is a delicate business.”

“You needn't worry, Your Majesty,” Kerta said. “From the masterful way you handled the
pasha
, I can tell you'll be brilliant.”

“Let us hope so, because I cannot afford to be otherwise.”

“Kerta's right,” Alix said, laying a hand on his arm. “There's no one in the world who handles pressure more gracefully than you.”

A strange look came over Erik. “I haven't felt very graceful lately. Quite the contrary, in fact. I'm glad things went well with the
pasha
, but I must admit, it was not easy for me. I felt . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind, I'm just tired. I think I'd better turn in.” He bid them good night and headed off to his tent, a huge pavilion of silk and stitched leather expansive enough to accommodate a herd of cattle. For Alix and Kerta, a blanket and the night air would have to serve.

“He'll feel better tomorrow,” Kerta said as they waited for sleep to claim them. “He'll be wonderful, as always.”

“I hope so. If he isn't . . .” Alix didn't finish the thought, but
she didn't need to. They both knew what was at stake. The grim truth was that if Erik failed, they might as well have died in those mountains, because without Harram, they were lost.

*   *   *

“And this wing
of the palace will be yours, Your Majesty,” the steward said, gesturing at a long, elaborately carved corridor lined with elaborately carved doors. Alix knew of the Harrami fondness for intricate design, especially where their furniture was concerned—every noble household in Alden had at least one Harrami cabinet, with their extravagant latticework and mother-of-pearl inlay—but she had never before laid eyes upon stonework like this, arch after arch stretching across the ceiling in sumptuous detail, torchlight flickering through tiny holes and casting strange shadows along the walls. This corridor alone must have taken hundreds of hours to create. She wished Liam could have seen it.

“As for your bodyguard,” the steward continued, “I imagine you will wish to keep her close. There is a small servants' cell adjoining your sitting chambers. I hope that will serve.”

“Admirably, thank you,” Erik said. “And for Lady Middlemarch?”

“She will be quartered in the north wing, with the ladies-in-waiting. Unless you would prefer a different arrangement?” The steward, Paiman, raised his eyebrows.

“I'm sure that will be fine,” Erik said.

“Shall I lead you through a brief tour of your rooms?”

“That won't be necessary, thank you. Just point me to the bedchamber.”

“At the end of the corridor, Your Majesty. The large arched doors. The ablutions chamber is adjoining. Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?”

“No, thank you.”

“In that case, I shall leave you. His High Lordship King Omaïd will receive you for dinner. A servant will come to escort you. Rest well, Your Majesty.” Bowing, the steward withdrew, leaving Alix and Erik alone with a pair of silent servants who took up posts on either side of the corridor, in case their royal guest should require anything further.

“Will you sleep?” Alix asked.

“Gods, no. I'm heading straight for a bath.” He rubbed his bearded jaw, smiling ruefully. “And a shave.”

“Me too,” Alix said. “The bath part, anyway.” She had never looked forward to one more than she did at that moment.

Which made it all the more disappointing when she opened the door to her assigned quarters and found nothing more than a bed, a bucket, and a washbasin.

She stood in the doorway, staring in mild disbelief.
A small cell
, the steward had called it. He hadn't understated the matter. If Alix had been just a few inches taller, her head would have brushed the ceiling. If she lay on the floor spread-eagled, she'd touch all four walls. Her privy at Blackhold was twice this size. And it didn't require her to relieve herself in a
bucket
.

Fury flooded her insides.
Do they know who I am?
But of course they did; Erik had introduced her—as his bodyguard, in accordance with her own wishes. Not Lady Alix Black, for that name was gone, and with it all the things she might have been. She belonged to Erik now, and to Liam. And as far as her hosts were concerned, that meant she was no one of consequence.

The Harrami
, Albern Highmount had said,
are very proud.
Evidently, that was putting it mildly. Paiman and the other servants hadn't even made eye contact with her in the courtyard. They'd treated Erik's horse with more deference. Alix knew she shouldn't let it bother her, but it was hard to accept this notion of who she was.

She washed up as best she could with what she had on hand, shivering from scalp to soles as she dragged a cold, wet rag over her body. She spent a good half hour running her fingers painfully through her hair, having lost her comb in the avalanche. She had just finished tying off her customary braid when a knock sounded at her little cell door. Opening it, she found a servant carrying a bundle of letters. “For you,” the man said, shoving the bundle at her. “Also, Paiman bade me tell you that the servants eat breakfast in the kitchen one hour before dawn.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his back on her and left.

Alix blinked in astonishment.
Breakfast in the kitchen? With the
servants
?

Then she saw the handwriting on the letters, and her outrage was instantly forgotten.
Liam.

There were half a dozen of them, each one folded into the tiny envelopes carried by messenger hawks. He must have started writing them almost as soon as he'd left her. Grinning like a fool, she started to tear open the first seal. Then she remembered something, and she paused, her smile fading. Liam had given her a letter on the day they'd parted.
Save it for a cold night
, he'd told her. She'd meant to do just that, but then the avalanche . . . Her heart gave a painful twinge. She'd lost her pack in the avalanche, and with it, Liam's letter.

Suddenly, the tiny envelopes in her hand were all the more precious. She tore them open eagerly, scanning each one for the date. The first was over a month old. Her heart gave another pang.
Has it really been so long?
And yet at the same time, it seemed longer.

Dear Allie,

I'm writing you from an inn called the Boar's Tusk. Somewhere in the Greylands, I'm told, which I suppose means we're near the border. Nothing exciting yet, which is probably a good thing. Come to think of it, I hope this ends up being the most boring trip of my life.

Anyway, I met my new second today. Dain Cooper. Decent bloke, from what I can tell, though it's hard to forget that he's displacing Ide. Who says, “Hi,” by the way. So does Rona. She's started braiding her hair like yours. Do you suppose she's got a crush on you?

Alix laughed aloud. Liam could be so endearingly clueless sometimes.

As you can tell, I haven't got much to say. We've barely got started, and it's only been a day since I saw you. But I miss you already, Allie. Loads. I wish so much that you could be here with me. Or that I could be there with you. Or better still, that we could be holed up in a cottage in the woods somewhere, just the two of us, raising bear cubs. Doesn't that sound nice? Possibly I should have mentioned that as a lifelong dream of mine before we married, but I was sure you'd understand.

I should probably turn in now. This lamp is running out of oil, and I really don't want to have to call the innkeep. I'm not sure I
can stand to see that moustache again. It's genuinely terrifying. It was watching me all through dinner, and when the innkeep nodded off behind the bar, I'm pretty sure I saw it move. I'm afraid it'll come for me in the night. Maybe I'll sleep with a dagger under my pillow.

I'd tell you to take care of Erik, but I know you will. You always do. I hope you're enjoying Ost, lying on one of those big canopy beds with the fancy carved posts.

Be safe, my love.
Liam

Alix could almost hear his voice in her ear. Gods, how she missed it. Smiling, she reached for another.

Her smile didn't make it through the first paragraph.

His abrupt dismissal at the Republicana. The discovery that the fleet was less than half finished. The cynical machinations of politicians whose agendas he just couldn't grasp. No humour, no quintessentially Liam nonsense. Just the unwavering sense that he was failing, again and again.

The letter after that was even worse, and by the time she'd finished all four, it felt as if she'd swallowed a stone.

I don't know what to do, Allie.

He hadn't even signed the last one, as if he couldn't bear to put his name to the defeat he'd narrated in painstaking detail. He'd made no progress, and no friends. Rona and the others couldn't seem to help him. He was alone out there, confused and frustrated, without even a single letter from her to ease his mind. “Oh, Liam,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry.”