The Bloodsworn (16 page)

Vel looked like she wanted to argue, but she just bit her lip and nodded. “Very well.”

“That's settled, then,” Dain said. “I'll start out as soon as I can. Now, where do we get this horse?”

*   *   *

“Alix.”

She glanced up to find Vel's slender silhouette framed by the thin rays of dawn. Patting her bedroll, Alix said, “Please.”

The priestess lowered herself down and smoothed her robes around her. “I'm sorry to intrude.”

“No intrusion. I wanted to talk to you anyway. I have for a while, actually, ever since . . .” Alix could feel her skin warming; fortunately, it was too dark to see. “Well,” she finished awkwardly, “you know.”

“That is behind us.”

“That's kind of you to say, but it's not really true. It couldn't be, not after what I did. I think . . .” She plucked at the grass beside her bedroll. “I
know
I could have handled that better.”

“We both could have.” Vel drew her knees up under her chin. “We are in an awkward position, you and I, and I daresay neither of us is terribly accustomed to holding her tongue.”

Alix regarded her brother's lover in silence. She was, Alix had to admit, rather remarkable. “You're being awfully gracious about this. I'm not sure I could be, in your shoes.”

Vel hitched a shoulder. “I know what it's like to feel fiercely protective of someone. To be prepared to do anything,
anything
, to keep them safe, even things that stain your soul . . .” She trailed off. Alix started to ask a question, but Vel continued, “Which is why I think we should be wary.”

Instinctively, Alix shot a glance across the camp to where Wraith and his men were gathering up their bedrolls. “Wary of what?”

“If what the soldier in Gertswold told you is correct, Sadik is in that camp.”

“Most likely.”

Vel lowered her voice. “Remember what I said about Wraith and the Resistance. You've surely seen evidence of it yourself by now. Like you and me, they are prepared to do whatever it takes to protect their people.”

“Meaning?”

“If I were Wraith, I would find the prospect of eliminating the Warlord more than a little tempting. That has never been a goal within his reach, but now . . .”

Alix thought back to the way Wraith had acted earlier—that feverish hunger, his insistence that they needed eyes on Sadik. “You're probably right, but there's not much I can do about it.”

“Except to be watchful, and not assume that Wraith or his men will be there for you when you need them.”

Alix shook her head bitterly. “Because this mission wasn't mad enough.”

“I will pray for you.” In the low light of dawn, Vel's eyes glinted like coal.

“Thank you, Daughter,” Alix said, and was half surprised to find that she meant it.

T
he constant hammering was driving Rig
insane
.

It began before dawn and did not cease until dusk. Hour after hour, day after day of relentless banging, until it felt as though the blows fell inside his skull, beating against his very eardrums. Even after the hammers went silent for the night, Rig could still hear them, pounding, pounding, like a terrified heartbeat. Like a countdown to doom. Like a thunder of enemy hoofbeats bearing down on the fort.

You're a proper sodding poet this morning, aren't you?

Growling, Rig rubbed his eyes and sat up. It was no good lolling around in bed feeling sorry for himself, letting his thoughts swirl in the same old dark dance. Even though it was not yet dawn, he could already feel the worries of the day weighing down on him; he might as well face it like a man. He washed in cold water and scrubbed his teeth. Confronting his reflection in the looking glass, he debated trimming his beard, as he did every morning. Decided against it, as he did every morning. Then he snatched up his greatsword and headed for the ring. He desperately needed to bludgeon something.

The infernal hammering accompanied him out of the barracks and into the yard, each blow answered with a ricochet
of sound off the opposite wall. The repairs were nearly complete, and for that Rig was grateful. He would reward the men with ale and cheese and the last of the salted pork. And then he would make a bonfire of every fucking hammer within a ten-mile radius.

When he reached the ring, he was surprised to find it already occupied: Commander Wright had claimed the leaded wooden longsword and was alternating between half-handed thrusts and two-handed chops on a straw dummy. “Ho there,” Rig called. “Fancy hitting something that hits back?”

Wright turned and saluted. “Good morning, General. An early start for you as well, I see.” Early enough, indeed, that mist still clung to the ground, rolling off the perpetual pool of rainwater the men had dubbed Lake Black. Rig had been after the engineers to find a drainage solution for weeks, but the repairs on the wall had effectively crossed that off the priority list. That, and the fact that the fort would likely be razed by the enemy in a matter of days.

“Hard to sleep with that racket,” Rig said, ducking between the rails and into the ring.

“Indeed. But their diligence has paid off, it seems. I'm told the repairs are nearly done.”

“Let's hope so. The Warlord has already given us more time than I expected.”

Wright nodded solemnly. “It is a blessing.”

The words brought Vel to mind. Hardly surprising; Wright was her closest disciple and spoke with the same slight Onnani accent. Though if Rig were honest with himself, plenty of things brought Vel to mind lately. He'd expected that—up to a point. But it ran deeper than he would have guessed, an uncomfortable realisation that he wasn't quite ready to deal with.

Just one more reason he needed to get on with bashing something. “Up for a little sparring, then?”

Wright smiled ruefully. “I've barely recovered from the last round, General. I fear my shoulder will never be the same.”

Rig winced. “Sorry about that. I did try to break the momentum at the end there, but . . .”

“You needn't concern yourself. Every wound is a lesson, isn't it?”

“And what lesson was that?”

“Parry.”

Rig laughed, exchanging his bloodblade for the wooden version. “Always good advice.” Taking the practice weapon two-handed, he swung it about his shoulders a few times to loosen up, enjoying the low hum as it cut through the air. He missed fighting with a greatsword, but alas—single combat was a rare occurrence for a commander general. These days, he was more likely to find himself on horseback, or on the walls. If it weren't for his daily routine in the ring, he'd be soft as a stableboy by now.

Planting his feet, he squared off. “Ready?”

They traded leisurely blows for a while, easing themselves into it, the cracking of wood joining the cacophony of percussion in the yard. Gradually, though, the momentum overcame them, each move a little more aggressive than the last, escalating steadily until they were properly pummelling each other. Wright was surprisingly nimble for a man of middle age, and he'd been well trained; Rig could tell by the way his glance kept dropping to the ground, reading his opponent's footwork. He obviously didn't have much experience with greatswords—he let himself get tied up once or twice in the parrying hooks, each time costing him a blow to the flank—but he held his own.

Rig took a couple of good cuts himself, but he didn't mind. A few bruises were a small price to pay for one of life's simple pleasures. Attack and riposte, lunge and retreat—it was a dance he never grew tired of. The immediacy of it, the straightforward sequence of action and reaction, everything tangible and predictable. Few things in Rig's world were as clear-cut. Not love, and certainly not warfare. Not when you had a spy in your ranks. When one of your
own men
had sold out his country to the enemy. What could prompt a man to such betrayal was simply beyond Rig's fathoming. As for unmasking him . . . One out of nine thousand. Like searching for a flea in a farmyard. He would never—

A hard blow rang off Rig's armour. Swearing, he pivoted and brought his weapon scything across his body, sending Wright stumbling back. Before the older man could regain his balance, Rig charged, getting off a rapid succession of unanswered jabs.
The momentum was his now, and he took full advantage, alternating side to side, high and low, forcing Wright to give ground.

His rhythm restored, Rig's thoughts drifted back to the spy. He should have talked to Allie about it while she was here. She had a good head for intrigue, though how she'd come by it, he couldn't imagine. The Blacks weren't exactly known for their political acumen. But Allie saw the angles somehow. She read the landscape of court the way Rig read the battlefield—capabilities, interests, opportunities. Vel had a similar talent, come to think of it. They probably made a good team. If anyone could recover Erik's twin, it was those two. Even so, Rig couldn't stand to think of them out there, surrounded by the enemy. It made him sick to his stomach, a familiar surge of dread washing over him . . .

Which was how he ended up on his ass.

A low chop to his calves spilled him like a sack of apples; he landed awkwardly, driving his shoulder into the hard ground and blasting the air from his lungs.

Wright leaned over him, hands propped on his thighs, breathing hard. “I sense your mind is elsewhere, General.”

“Looks like.” Rig had let his thoughts get drawn into that same old dark dance after all. He lay on his back a moment, contemplating the sky and his own stupidity, before hauling himself gracelessly to his feet.

“The spy?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“It's what I would be thinking about in your place. That, and worrying for my sister and my . . . er . . .”

“I'm worried for all our people,” Rig said, sparing them both having to endure some ridiculous euphemism for
lover
. He and Wright had largely managed to avoid talking about Vel until now, and Rig hoped to keep it that way. It was hard to say which of them would find the subject more awkward.

“I'm sure they will be fine,” Wright said. “Daughter Vel is exceedingly clever, and Lady Alix has a reputation for being a capable warrior. On top of which, they have a pair of White Wolves as an escort.” He paused again, and Rig could tell he was debating whether to ask
why
this clever, capable duo had been sent under White Wolf escort into enemy territory, but he
managed to restrain himself. Wright was a military man; he understood the need for secrets. Especially when there was a spy among them.

“I just wish I could think of some ploy to flush him out,” Rig said. “The spy, I mean.”

“And I wish I could suggest something, but the truth is, without at least some small clue to go on, we're utterly blind.”

Rig replaced the practice sword on the rack and grabbed a towel. “It's got to be someone with access to logistics of some kind, or he wouldn't be able to communicate with the Warlord. That narrows it down some. Ordinarily, I'd do as you suggested the other day—plant a seed of misinformation and watch to see who reacts. But with these close quarters, and the rumour mill whirling away like it is, we could never control where that seed ended up. It'd be like blowing a dandelion into the wind and trying to keep track of where it sprouts.”

Wright grunted. “An excellent analogy.”

“I seem to be feeling lyrical today,” Rig said sourly, glancing up at the ramparts where the guard was changing over. The men coming off looked frayed at the edges, and those coming on didn't look much better. The anxiety of waiting for their doom to come knocking was wearing them all down. “Frankly,” Rig said, “it matters less each day, with the Warlord on our doorstep.”

“I suppose that's true. Now that Sadik knows where we are, we have few secrets left to tell. The damage is largely done.”

Rig paused. “Which is what, exactly?”

“Sorry?”

“The damage.” He scratched his beard, musing. “When you think about it, there hasn't been much. If anything, we've been able to use the situation to our advantage, feeding the enemy rumours and lies. It might not have unmasked the traitor, but it did allow us to manipulate Sadik.”

“A testament to your cunning, General. You turned a liability into an opportunity.”

Rig snorted. “If the options are between my being brilliant and the other guy being a fool, I'm inclined to think it's the latter.”

“You lack grace with a compliment, General,” Wright said, smiling.

“I lack grace in every way, Commander.” Cocking his head in the direction of the wall walk, he added, “Join me for the rounds?”

They toured the wall walk, surveying the state of their defences. Not an activity likely to improve Rig's mood, given how paltry those defences were in comparison with what would be thrown against them. Sadik had at least twenty thousand men at his disposal, more if he gathered up the forces occupying Timra and elsewhere. With or without siege engines, he would ride roughshod over them, a destrier thundering across a patch of daisies. It was simply a question of numbers. If Erik had managed to convince the Harrami legions to come to their rescue, or if the Onnani fleet were ready to set sail . . . but those things hadn't happened. Alden was on her own, and Rig couldn't defend her, not anymore; it was like trying to stanch a fatal wound with his bare hands. The best he could hope for was to keep her alive a little longer so that someone more skilled could save her.

Someone like Erik. But first, someone would have to save
him
.

Which brought Rig's thoughts right back to his sister, and Vel, and the whole dark dance began all over again.

By evening, a second round in the ring was beginning to look tempting—that, or a round of serious drinking. Rig was trying to decide which when a shout went up from the gates.

“Kingsword rider coming through!”

Rig froze midstride. The horses—what was left of them—were stabled within the walls. There shouldn't be any Kingsword riders outside the gates. A message from the capital, perhaps? But no, that would have come by pigeon. Rig braced himself for bad news.

At least, he thought he was braced. But when Dain Cooper rode through the gates alone, Rig's knees nearly gave out.

“General!” The Onnani knight saluted and swung down from his horse. “I bring news from Lady Alix.”

Rig blew out a relieved breath. “She's all right, then?”

“Everyone was well when I left them, General.”

“But the fact that you left them at all doesn't augur well.”

Lowering his voice, Dain said, “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

Back in his quarters, Rig listened in glowering silence as Dain Cooper recounted the events south of the border. Rig had spent all day listening to bad news, but that had been children's rhymes compared to what he was hearing now. One close call after another, Alix at the sharp end of all of them. And when he heard about Governor Arkenn, what Wraith had forced his sister to do . . . Rig set his wine cup aside lest it shatter in his hand. “I'll kill him. I swear by Ardin, I'll choke the life out of him.”

“I wouldn't stop you, General, at least not once we have Rodrik in hand. But for now, we need him. And we need you.”

“How?”

“We followed the trail to Ennersvale. That's where the Warlord's main camp is.”

“I'm aware.” It was a smart choice. Well positioned for water and roads, and perched on a swell in the land, offering a decent view in all directions, barring a few dips here and there. “It's as strategic a location as you can find on an open plain.”

“It's also where he's holding Rodrik.”