The Bloodforged (9 page)

“Please forgive my unexpected arrival,” the chairman said. “I would have sent word, but I thought it best that this visit go unmarked.”

“Unmarked?” Liam frowned. “You mean you're here in secret?”

Irtok gave a short laugh, setting his jowls quivering. “Nothing so dramatic. I am simply trying to avoid awkward questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as why I felt the need to speak with you in private.” He waited. Cleared his throat. When it became clear Liam had no intention of dismissing his officers, Irtok added, “Or, if not in private, at least outside the presence of my learned colleagues.”

“And why would you feel the need to do that?” Liam gestured for the chairman to sit.

“I presume the first speaker and his consul of defence offered a theory as to why the construction of the fleet is delayed. I presume they intimated that the opposition is actively sabotaging the efforts of the government.” Irtok leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I tell you now, Your Highness, that is rank nonsense. The People's Congress may oppose the war, but they would never go so far. Syril would never go so far.”

Liam considered him with narrowed eyes. “You're a member of the Worker's Alliance, aren't you?”

“Of course. I could hardly be chairman otherwise.”

“I'm just surprised you would speak so openly against your own league.” That wasn't completely true. He knew from Saxon's notes that Irtok was a rival for leadership of the Alliance, and with elections on the horizon, it was all but inevitable that his differences with Kar would widen. Liam didn't know much about politics, but it didn't take a career diplomat to work that out.

“I want what is best for this country, Your Highness,” Irtok said. “We are at war, and we need competent men at the helm. Alas, that does not include our current consul of defence. I'm afraid that First Speaker Kar is simply doing his best to cover up the failings of his own cabinet. Which makes him just as culpable, I regret to say.”

He didn't sound that regretful.

“So you think it's a question of incompetence?” Liam asked. “No one is deliberately dragging his feet?”

“A terrible accusation,” Irtok said. “It wounds me to the core that my learned colleagues would deliberately lead you to believe so. They are only looking to deflect blame from themselves, Your Highness.”

“So what's to be done?”

Irtok's gaze fell to his lap. He picked at something invisible on his robes. “I regret to say that so long as things remain as they are, there is no solution at hand. If we are to find a way out of this most desperate situation . . .” He shook his head sadly. “I fear significant changes may be called for.”

“Ah.” Liam saw where this was going. He should have seen it from the start.

“Nothing so dramatic as an early election, of course. We could not afford that kind of instability. But perhaps, if His Majesty, your brother, were to suggest to some of my learned colleagues . . .”

“Got it,” Liam said. And he did. He got it all too well.

His point made, Chairman Irtok drained his wine and left. Liam didn't even bother to rise, let alone see him off. He was too bloody
stunned
.

“Well,” he said when Irtok had gone, “that was definitely my favourite part of the day.”

“What he just suggested to you . . .” Rona was wide-eyed. “If anyone had overheard that . . .”

“What, you mean the part where he asked me to help toss out his own government?”

“Treason,” Ide whispered, darting a glance at the door.

“No,” Dain said. “This isn't a monarchy. The Worker's Alliance can vote to replace its leadership anytime it likes. Irtok's proposal isn't treasonous, it's just slimy.”

So it begins.
Liam had been warned about the agendas here, how dangerously complex they could be, but he hadn't expected to be sucked into the mire quite so quickly. He raked his fingers through his hair and swore under his breath. Gods, he hated this. He belonged at the front, with Rig—all the Wolves did. Instead, they were squirming around in this viper's nest.

“Your Highness.” Shef again, bearing a scroll. “A messenger left this for you earlier. I did not wish to interrupt . . .”

A blade of fear sliced through Liam. How long had the servant been standing there? What had he overheard? Treason or no, the Onnani were not likely to look fondly on the Prince of Alden conspiring against their government.

If Shef had heard anything, he gave no sign; he just handed over the scroll. Liam took it, hoping his hands looked steadier than they felt. There was no seal on the wax, just an anonymous grey blob. Frowning, he opened it.

As he read, he felt heat rising on the back of his neck, and his pulse started to race. It must have shown on his face, because Rona got up from her chair. “Commander?”

“I spoke too soon,” he growled. “This is
definitely
my favourite part of the day.”

“What's it say?” Ide asked.

“The handwriting is a bit crude, but I'm pretty sure it says,
Monarchist bastard. You are not welcome in Onnan. You leave now, and your White Dogs with you. You are warned. If you stay, you die.
” He crumpled the parchment in his hand. “Do you think they meant
bastard
literally, or just in the nasty way?”

“How can you joke about this?” Rona had gone pale. “That's a death threat!”

“I got that impression too.”

She snatched the letter from Liam's hands, and the three of them clustered around to read.

Liam went for the wine. Then he changed his mind and
threw open the doors to the balcony. He stood outside, breathing deeply of the salt air, letting it ruffle his hair.

If you stay, you die.
Pretty unambiguous, that. Clearest thing anyone had said to him since he got here.

He missed Alix. She'd know what to do. She knew how to solve puzzles, how to fight foes you couldn't see. So did Erik. They were alike that way.
In a lot of ways
, a voice inside him whispered. Liam closed his eyes and tried not to think.

He stayed out there until the sun set, ignoring the exhortations to come back inside, to get something to eat. It wasn't until the moon rose and the mist crept up the hill that he finally retreated, damp and shivering, to his room.

Rudi growled from a shadowed corner. Liam was too exhausted to care. He dropped down in front of the fire, and the wolfhound came over, sniffing at his salt-crusted clothes. Liam ignored him. A moment later, a warm mass slumped into his leg. Rudi dropped his head onto his paws with a sigh.

Liam fell asleep with the wolfhound's wiry fur coiled in his fingers.

T
here were four of them. They weren't wearing crimson, but he could tell even at this distance that they weren't his, which meant they were the enemy. Scouts, obviously, and a good half day's march from the border—a lot closer to the fort than they had any right to be.

“Bugger,” said Riggard Black.

“Have to agree with you there, General.” Commander Morris offered him the longlens.

Rig waved it off; he'd seen all he needed to. “I thought we'd have another two weeks or so before the fun started. I'm still
freezing my balls off every morning, and we've got at least one snowfall ahead of us. It's too soon.”

“Agreed on that too,” said Morris. “Reckon we should be grateful they waited until you got back from the capital.”

“I'll be sure to thank the Virtues in my prayers tonight.”

“Never took you for a praying man, General.”

“Oh, constantly. I'm one trial away from being ordained as a priest.”

They wriggled back down the hill, their armour carving a glistening trail of black mud out of the undergrowth. They'd be covered in it from knees to shoulders, but that was all to the good; it would make them harder to see when they stole up on the enemy.

Men and horses, eight of them, waited at the bottom of the rise. “Arrows,” Rig told them. “Quick and quiet.”

Wordlessly, the men readied their bows. Rig grabbed his own bloodbow and quiver from his saddle and motioned for them to fan out. They'd close a little distance, then take the enemy scouts from the flanks. It would be the first bloodshed of the season. Scattered droplets before the downpour.

Rig and Morris split up, each of them leading four men. They picked their way carefully through the undergrowth. The wind was in their favour, rustling the trees and carrying sound away from the enemy. Rig's pulse pounded satisfyingly in his ears. It wasn't that he craved battle—the gods knew he had enough of
those
types under his command—but sitting around all winter waiting for the enemy to pounce was enough to drive a man mad. So when enemy scouts were sighted near the fort, he'd insisted on coming himself. Not a commander general's task, he knew, but his hinges were rusty, and they needed working.

He led his unit in a wide arc, confident that Morris was mirroring the move on the enemy's other flank. He kept them out of sight until he judged they were just short, then swung in to intercept. There was no signal, no elaborate whistle or flash of mirror. Rig would shoot first, then the others would loose their own. Simple. No room for ambiguity. There was nothing ambiguous about death.

The enemy scouts moved slowly, hoping for stealth. That made them easy targets. Rig drew, thumb brushing his beard. The bloodbow creaked. He paused, eyes narrowed, letting his
breath settle—as though there were any chance he could miss, any chance that a shaft loosed from an enchanted bow could do other than fly unerringly to its target. Rig could have pierced his enemy's ear from here. But he was too practiced a soldier to take anything for granted, so he sighted, and he breathed, and he waited. And then he let fly.

The lead scout pitched backward with an arrow in his eye.

The enemy scattered like startled deer. For two of them, it was too late; they went down studded with arrows. But communication had broken down in Morris's unit, and the archers all aimed for the same man. The survivor, unmarked, dove through the trees and out of sight.

Rig swore and gave chase. It was only one man, but they'd managed to keep the location of the fort secret until now, and Rig would be damned if a lucky scout lived to betray it. He plunged through the trees, bloodbow pumping in his right hand, sword swinging wildly at his hip. He was a big man, and athletic, but he wore a breastplate and mail, heavy boots, designed for fighting on horseback. The enemy scout, in his lightweight leathers, would outrun him easily. Fortunately, Rig had two scouts of his own, already streaking ahead. He wasn't worried.

Until he saw the rest of them.

Seven in all, only three men short of Rig's unit. Scouts, judging from their leather and light weapons, but they were ready, having been alerted by the noise of ten men crashing through the trees toward them. An arrow whizzed by Rig's shoulder. It caught one of his scouts in the chest; she went down with a cry. Moments later, another shout sounded from the east—one of Morris's. Near even strength now. Rig swore viciously and yanked an arrow from his quiver.

His was the only bloodbow on the field; he could tell by the wild shots flying in both directions. He dropped three men before anyone else drew blood. It wouldn't be much of a fight, but that didn't mean all was well. Rig couldn't see the first scout, the one who'd fled. He must have kept running. And that meant he was still a danger.

Rig loosed another arrow, but his target got lucky, diving to avoid someone else's shot and taking himself out of Rig's line of fire. Bloodbows were deadly accurate, but they couldn't turn corners. “Morris!”

“Here, General!”

“Finish this! I'm going after him!”

A heated oath floated through the trees. Morris didn't like his commander putting himself at risk. But he was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders, so his next words were, “Aye, General!”

Rig hadn't waited for the reply; he'd already broken off from the battle, moving in the direction he'd last seen the scout. He despaired of catching up, but he had to try.

Within moments, the sounds of battle were swallowed by the forest. That was well, because now Rig could hear his quarry up ahead, rustling and snapping. He veered toward the sound, and soon enough he could see the trail. A man blundering through last season's undergrowth was not hard to follow; Rig even allowed himself to slow down some, putting stealth above speed. He couldn't hope to overtake his quarry, but if the scout thought himself out of danger, he would slow, perhaps even stop.

Rig's breath was harsh in his ears. He couldn't remember the last time he'd run like this with armour on.
You'll be feeling that tomorrow
, he thought. Presuming he lived that long.

The trail grew harder to follow. The enemy scout had dropped pace, as hoped, but that meant he left less destruction in his wake. Rig slowed to a walk, using his ears to guide him once more. The noise came from the south, toward the river. The scout had a long way to go, but if he made it across the border, he'd be treated to a hero's welcome. The Oridians had been trying to locate the fort since last autumn. It had been built in haste and was no great fortress, but it gave Rig a foothold west of the citadel at Pir, allowing him to be much more nimble along the border and plugging the gap that had allowed the enemy to invade in earnest last spring. If the Oridians found it, they would smash it easily, and then there would be nothing standing between them and the Greenlands.

Belatedly, Rig realised that the forest had gone silent. He froze. A breath of wind rustled the budding branches around him, but nothing else moved. He closed his eyes, listening. Still nothing.

A squirrel erupted into chatter above him. Swearing under his breath, Rig looked up, thinking to silence it with an arrow; instead he saw a dark shape plummeting down from the
branches. It struck him full force, knocking him to the ground and driving the wind from him.

A moment of confusion, the world reeling overhead, a mass of leather and steel piled on top of him. Metal flashed. Rig's hand shot up and seized the wrist above him, gave it a sharp twist. The man grunted, but the dagger didn't fall; instead it continued to inch nearer. They struggled; somehow, the scout managed to get a knee up against Rig's throat, a crushing weight against his windpipe. Panic arced through him, stronger even than the pain. The knee ground into him. A few more moments of this, and he'd never draw air again. He writhed violently, trying to throw his attacker off even as he kept the dagger at bay, his left hand clawing ineffectually at the man's leathers. The scout shifted again, looking to pin Rig's left arm with his other knee.

That was a mistake.

With his legs freed, Rig was able to get the leverage he needed; he threw his left fist into the man's temple, landing a solid blow that stunned his enemy. Another punch pitched the scout sideways, and Rig rolled, putting himself on top. He used all his considerable bulk to pin the man, and then he went to work, driving his fist down again and again with the brutal force of rage and relief.

It wasn't pretty, but it didn't last long. By the time he was through, the face below him was scarcely human.

Rig lurched to his feet over the bloodied form, coughing and fingering his throbbing throat. He couldn't see any pockets, pouches, anywhere the scout might have stashed information of value. The Warlord was too smart for that. Like Rig, he sent his scouts into the field with little more than their leathers and their wits. Which was why so many of them ended up gutted, felled by an arrow, or beaten to death by large, angry men.

Pausing to catch his breath, Rig took in his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the bright scar on the tree bark beside him, from where the scout had scrabbled up to ambush him.
How did you miss that, you oaf?
He was lucky to be alive.

The second thing he noticed was that he had absolutely no idea where he was.

Brilliant. He was ploughing with a full team today.

He had two choices: head back the way he'd come until he picked up the trail, or make for the road, which had to be broadly
northwest of here. He chose the latter. A longer route, but a surer one, and less likely to run him into prowling enemy soldiers.

A good hour went by before Rig found the road. And naturally, it started to rain. A cold drizzle at first, followed by a deluge. Water streamed down his face, soaking his beard and plastering his hair to his forehead. It trailed icy fingers down the back of his neck and under his mail. He might as well have gone for a bloody
swim
. The storm let up after a while, but by then, the damage was done; Rig was shivering down to his bones. If he didn't find dry clothes and a fire soon, he'd fall ill for certain.
Wouldn't that beat all
, he thought.
Survive the siege and bloodbound thralls, only to die of fever.

It was about then that he realised he was being watched.

He turned, already swinging his bloodbow down from his shoulder. A figure on horseback stood in the middle of the road. The rider's features were obscured within a hooded cloak, but the long black hair cascading over the left shoulder marked her a woman. A brazen one at that, leaving her hair unbound. A noble lady might get away with that, but it surprised Rig that a woman from these provincial parts would be so unabashed.

“Ho there.” He slung his bow back over his shoulder to show that he wasn't a threat.

The woman brought her horse closer, turning it aside so she might get a clear look at the stranger in the road. Rig resisted the urge to wipe at the mud on his breastplate. It wouldn't do any good anyway.

“Is that how you greet a woman, soldier?
Ho there?
”

She spoke with a light Onnani accent. An easterner, Rig wondered, or the real thing? Either way, it seemed he'd offended her. He offered his most charming smile and swept into a bow. “My deepest apologies, my lady. I meant no offence. Army life erodes a man's manners.”

“Are you lost?”

“Not lost, at least not anymore. I'm not far from home, actually, but the going has been slow.” He gestured at the muddy road.

“Are you wounded?”

“Thankfully no, though I did encounter a spot of trouble.”

“I can see that. There are spots of trouble all over your breastplate.”

Rig looked down and winced. Soaked to the smalls, but somehow he still managed to be spattered with blood. The gods were not on his side today.

“Yours,” she asked, “or someone else's?”

“An Oridian scout.”

“May he find peace in his Domain,” she said gravely.

A number of possible responses occurred to Rig, but he thought better of them.

“You are on your way back to your comrades, presumably. My horse can carry two, if you like.”

A woman leaving her hair unbound in public was brazen. A woman offering to ride double with a total stranger—a soldier spattered with blood, no less—was something else entirely. Fortunately, Rig was quite comfortable with brazen women, having more or less raised one himself. “A very generous offer,” he said, “one I'm inclined to accept, given that my fingers are turning blue.”

Her horse danced up alongside him. Rig could see her face now, gazing down from within the hood, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, quite lovely. His admiration must have shown on his face, because her mouth quirked. “You're staring, soldier.”

“I suppose I am.” He smiled. “Last chance to back out.”

“You don't frighten me. The Virtues protect their chosen.” She threw back one side of her cloak, revealing the robes of a priestess. She laughed then, obviously enjoying the look of astonishment on Rig's face. She leaned down, so close that it was all Rig could do not to recoil. “Last chance to back out,” she purred.

A priestess. Rig certainly hadn't been expecting
that
. Female clergy were rare in Alden, even rarer in Onnan, and figured prominently in a number of unflattering legends. Under the Erromanians, they'd been branded witches, hanged and burned, and not necessarily in that order. Rig wasn't a religious man, but he'd seen firsthand the terrible magicks a priest could wield. To be sure, Madan, the Madman of Oridia, hadn't been just any priest. But he'd proven that some legends, even the darkest ones, had their basis in truth.

“Why, soldier, you've gone a little pale. Perhaps we'd better get you to a fire.” She laid a hand against the saddle. “Front or back?”

“I'm taller,” Rig said, his voice suddenly a little gruff.
Get a hold of yourself, Black. She's just a woman. She's not likely to harvest your blood.
“I'll go behind, if you don't mind.”