The Bloodsworn (24 page)

The tears were flowing freely now; Alix could do nothing to hide them. Rodrik's eyes, his grip on her hand, demanded that she meet his gaze, however painful it might be.

“Will you give him a message for me?”

Alix sucked in a shuddering breath, nodding. She could hardly see him through the blur of her tears.

“Tell him I'm sorry. I tried to hold on . . . I so wanted to meet him . . .”

“He wanted to meet you.” She could give him that, at least. “They told him you were stillborn, but he mourned you anyway. He always wondered what it would have been like if you'd grown up together.”

Rodrik smiled. Erik's smile. “Tell him I'll see him in good time. He's my twin—we will go to the same Domain. He can meet my wife and my child . . .” He was fading now, the words slurring as exhaustion claimed him again. “My sister will come one day too, and we can be a family . . .”

Alix's hands tightened over his, her head bowed in silent agony as she watched him slip into blackness.

*   *   *

They buried Rodrik White at the foot of a mammoth pine tree overlooking Boswyck Valley. It seemed somehow appropriate that he should lie here, in this place that held so much significance for all three of his brothers. It felt right that the tens of thousands of Kingswords resting in the valley below should have their prince watching over them.

None of that gave Alix any comfort. Erik's twin was dead. The brother he had longed for his entire life had slipped forever beyond his grasp, and she had been powerless to stop it. It was a grief as sharp and heavy as any she had ever borne, just one more burden to carry with her forever from the shadowed slopes of Boswyck Valley.

R
ig held the longlens to his eye, cursing a streak so vivid that even the hardened soldiers at his back shifted uncomfortably. The view before him was of fields and more fields and yet more fields—empty. It was just as the scouts had reported, but he still couldn't quite believe it. “It doesn't make sense,” he growled. “Where
is
he?”

“Nowhere nearby, that's for certain,” Dain Cooper said. “Territory doesn't get much more open than this.”

“Perhaps they have fallen back,” offered Commander Wright.

It certainly
looked
as though the enemy had fallen back. Ennersvale was completely deserted. Rig would have sworn they were in the wrong place were it not for the evidence of an army camp all around him: the crisscrossing lines of muddied turf, the squares of flattened grass and the charred remains of cooking fires. Most of all, the lingering smell of shit from shallow latrines. This was it, all right—the place where fifteen thousand Oridian soldiers had been camped only a few days before. The very spot where Rig and Dain and a battalion of horse archers had swooped in under cover of darkness to scour
the unsuspecting ranks of the enemy while Alix mounted her rescue.

This was the place, but the only sign of life was a coyote and a few crows picking about in search of scraps. Sadik was long gone.

“They've been here for weeks, and now suddenly they pack up and leave?” Rig shook his head. “The Warlord doesn't withdraw, especially not when he's got us by the balls. This is a ploy.”

Wright sighed. “Regrettably, I concur.”

“Well,” Dain said, “I don't suppose glaring at this field all day is going to help us figure it out. We need intelligence.”

That was an understatement. Rig had never felt so utterly blind in his life. He had no idea whether Alix had been successful in her rescue attempt, or whether she was even alive. He knew nothing of events in Erroman. Nor was he any closer to rooting out the spy in his ranks. And now, on top of everything, he'd somehow managed to lose fifteen thousand men in an open field. “We need more than intelligence. We need an all-seeing eye. And me without my priestess of Eldora.” Rig winced inwardly at his own choice of words. He'd meant it as a throwaway, the sort of glib remark he was known for. But the truth was, Vel's absence gnawed at him nearly as much as his sister's. At first that had irked him, suggesting as it did an inconvenient truth that he wasn't quite ready to face. But now, weeks on and with no news of her fate, Rig was through worrying about inconvenient truths. He wanted Vel safe in his arms and that was that.

“The last people to see my sister and Vel alive were also the last people to have eyes on that army,” Rig said.

“The Resistance.” Dain nodded. “As good a place to start as any, assuming they're still alive. But how do we get in touch with them?”

“We go that way,” Rig said, pointing.

Wright's eyebrows flew up. “Are you sure that's wise?” Lowering his voice, he continued, “What if the spy is among us? We could lead him straight to the Resistance.”

Gesturing at his escort, Rig said, “The odds of the spy being among these twenty-four men are virtually nil. Besides, from what Dain tells me, we'll be blindfolded before we get anywhere
near the place. But there's no point in both of us putting ourselves at risk, Commander—take your men and head back to the fort. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Wright eyed him sceptically, but he held his peace, turning away to round up his men.

“Let me go, General,” Dain said. “I'll take a few men and—”

“I've got business with Wraith.” The dark tone of Rig's voice gave away more than he would have liked.

Dain started to say something, then thought better of it.

Rig gave him a wry look. “Permission to speak freely, soldier.”

“I don't think you need me to say it, General.” The remark reminded Rig so much of his former second that he found himself giving the Onnani knight a newly appraising look, which Dain misread as irritation. “Sorry, General, but I always figured you for a man who'd rather hear truth than treacle.”

“You figured right. But I'm still going to have a chat with our friend Wraith.” So saying, Rig put the spurs to his horse.

*   *   *

He almost hoped they'd stumble across the enemy along the way. At least then the mystery of the missing army would be solved and they could hightail it back to the ford. But the fields between Ennersvale and the place Alix and the others had been “found” by the Resistance remained stubbornly, eerily empty. Rig and his small party kept to the trees near the river—he wasn't
completely
reckless—but if there were enemy scouts using the woods as cover, they were well hidden.

It's as if they just vanished into thin air.
Which meant they could be anywhere, poised to strike. It was like being sent into melee combat blindfolded. Rig's nerves couldn't have been more frayed if they'd been coated in honey and chewed on by rats.

It was a little past midday when Dain said, “Here.”

Rig glanced around. “Where?”

“Just here.”

“What, in the middle of the trees?”

Dain nodded. “They'd been following us for a while, set an ambush of sorts for us in the trees. After that, we were blindfolded. But I reckon we can make a good guess of it.”

“I hope so, or we've come a long way for nothing.” Rig glanced behind him; his escort was about ready to fall out of their saddles. They'd been on the road since well before dawn, and nobody was sleeping much these days. It was hard to catch a proper kip when you were sure each night was going to be your last.

“We started off on this dirt track,” Dain said, pointing. “It was late morning. By the time we got there, though, the sun was at our backs. I remember being uncomfortably hot.”

Rig glanced up at the sky. “East, then.”

“Southeast, more like. For about three hours.”

“In an oxcart on open ground. I'd say that's more than enough to go on. Good work, Commander.”

Dain gave a brisk nod, almost managing to conceal his pleasure at the praise. He knew Rig didn't serve it up lightly.

They followed the narrow dirt track for about an hour until one of the scouts pointed out a set of wagon ruts in the wheat, heading east. Dain reckoned that was about right, so they veered off the track and followed the wagon across open farmland.

Rig fully expected the Resistance to have sentries, so he was only a little startled a couple of hours later when a trio of archers sprang up out of the grass, bows trained at his heart. He jerked Alger to a halt and raised a hand, warning his men not to do anything rash. “Riggard Black to see Wraith,” he said dryly.

The sentries exchanged a glance. “
General
Riggard Black?”

“The same.”

“How do we know it's really you?”

Rig rolled his eyes. “If the livery and banners aren't enough for you, maybe you recall seeing this knight before? I imagine you don't get many Onnani round here.”

Dain considered the sentries. “I've never seen these two before, but the woman was with us in Timra. Name of Gretia, if I recall.”

“I remember you, fishman,” she said.

“But you don't seem to remember your manners,” Rig said. “This man is a Kingsword knight. You will show him the proper respect.”

Gretia glared up at him sullenly. “I can't take you to Wraith. Not without a blindfold.”

“Get on with it, then.” Rig swung down from his horse.

They made the rest of the journey on foot, blundering their way through the wheat with nothing but an occasional hand on their elbows to guide them. It did little to improve Rig's opinion of the Resistance, or its leader.

When the blindfolds were removed, they found themselves standing outside a small farmhouse. “This is it,” said Dain. “Same place as before.”

“Better tell him we're here,” Rig said to the sentry. “Wouldn't want things getting dramatic.”

Gretia gave him a smug look. “We sent word hours ago. Been watching you since the river.”

“Good,” Rig said, stepping around the startled sentry and barging through the door.

Inside, he found a slight man lounging at a table. “Welcome,” the white-hair said casually, gesturing for his visitor to sit.

Rig declined with a snort.

Dain appeared at Rig's shoulder. “Hello, Asvin.”

Green eyes widened. The man called Asvin remained seated, but his hand twitched subtly near his midsection. Going for a dagger, most likely.

“You look surprised to see me,” Dain said. “Your sentries told us they'd sent word.”

“Of approaching men-at-arms. They weren't specific.” His manner was cool but wary, hand still resting against his midsection.

“Your sentries need to brush up on their livery,” Rig said. “The Kingsword banner is pretty unmistakable. As is my own.” He gestured at the swatch of black silk hanging from his left shoulder.

The white-hair paled. “You.”

“Me. Now get up. I want to see your boss.”

“He's not . . . I don't . . .” Asvin was having some trouble finishing a sentence. It might have had something to do with the look in Rig's eye, which probably communicated his mood well enough.

“The back door,” Dain said quietly.

Rig glanced at the back of the room. Raising his voice, he said, “Maybe this peek-and-hide bollocks impresses your usual houseguests, but I'm not a patient man.”

“So I've heard, General,” said a voice, and an imposing shadow darkened the doorway behind Dain.
How in the Nine Hells did he get past my knights?
Rig did his best not to look nonplussed as the figure strode through the door. He had a falcon on his arm, the same type he'd sent north with Vel a couple of months ago.

“Wraith, I presume?”

The big man deposited his falcon on a perch in the corner. “An honour, General Black.”

Rig's mouth twisted, but he managed to keep himself in check, saying only, “We have business to discuss.”

Wraith exchanged a guarded look with his lieutenant. “What sort of business?”

“Various sorts.” Rig dragged out a chair, dropping himself into it and propping a boot on his thigh. Dain sat across from Asvin, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. A nice, relaxed meeting, this. “Let's start close to home,” Rig said. “My sister. What do you know of her fate?” He put every bit of menace he could muster into his voice, the better to conceal the terrified lump in his throat. There was a fair to good chance he was about to hear that Allie was dead, and he honestly didn't know what that would do to him. Or what he would do to the man sitting across from him.

“Last we knew,” Wraith said, “she was alive and well, her and the priestess and the other one.”

Rig's lungs filled in relief, but he kept his tone hard and his questions clipped. “Last you knew. Which was when?”

Another glance passed between the white-hairs. “Night of the attack,” the big man said, “when you so kindly provided a diversion.”

“And the rescue?”

This time, it was the smaller man, Asvin, who answered. “They found Rodrik, I can tell you that much. I saw the four of them trying to make their escape. I tried to get to them”—his gaze dropped—“but there were too many soldiers between us. After that . . .” He shrugged.

“You don't know if they made it out.”

Asvin shook his pretty head. “Sorry.”

Wraith, for his part, said nothing.

Rig narrowed his eyes. There was something they weren't telling him. Dain thought so too, judging from the thoughtful frown he wore. But Wraith's craggy features promised only stonewalling, so Rig moved on. “What about the Warlord? What happened after the Kingswords retreated?”

“We looked for Sadik,” Wraith said. “Combed that sodding camp from end to end. Couldn't find him anywhere.”

Rig lifted an eyebrow. “And if you had?”

“I'd have cut his throat and fed his entrails to his dogs.”

It was all Rig could do not to laugh. Did this self-important thug really think he could have bested Sadik? The Warlord of Oridia, a vicious killer who had earned his place by systematically exterminating all rivals? “I doubt you'd have found him easy prey.”

“Maybe not, but I'd have died trying.”

Rig grunted. “I can respect that,” he said, and he meant it. “So you fled the camp, presumably.”

“Wouldn't call it
fleeing
, General,” Wraith said between his teeth. “We left when it was clear we weren't going to find Sadik.”

“What can you tell me about numbers?” Rig asked.

“Your sister estimated fifteen thousand.”

Rig scowled. It made no
sense
.

“I know what you're thinking,” Wraith said. “Sadik had twenty thousand there a month ago. What happened to the other five?”