The Bloodsworn (26 page)

She felt the air go out of him, felt his shoulders convulse in a silent sob. Alix held him tighter. “You still have family,” she said. “Liam loves you. And I love you. Very much, Erik.”

Alix held her king until he stopped shaking. It was a long time.

*   *   *

“How is he?”

Alix sighed. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” Liam said, rolling over. “I heard you pouring your bath.”

“Sorry.”

“Most wonderful sound I've heard in weeks.” He pulled aside the blanket, resting his hand on the empty space beside him. Empty no more. Alix slid into bed, curling her body into his and sighing as if she'd been holding her breath for a month.
I'm home
, she thought, sinking into him in relief.
My bed, my husband. My perfect fit.

Except it wasn't, not quite. Their customary position pinned her injured arm under her. “Can we roll over?”

He obliged, and Alix tucked up behind him. Yet it still didn't feel right.
You're just not used to it
, she told herself.

But it was more than that. Something lay between them now, a whispering chasm filled with the echoes of bitter words.
Give it time
, Rig had said, but even a month apart hadn't been enough. The distance between them wasn't going to close up on its own; it would have to be bridged somehow.

Alix started to say something, but the words eluded her. She stared at the back of Liam's shoulders, a broad wall of smooth muscle. Silence pooled around them. Then Alix recalled something else her brother had said that day:
Show me a man who doesn't suffer by comparison to Erik White.

Liam doesn't
, Alix had said.

Better make sure he knows you feel that way, Allie.

She bit her lip. Then she said, “Lord Swiftcurrent told me about the speech you made. He said it was incredibly inspiring.”

“He's being generous. It wasn't a disaster, but I wouldn't say it was the stuff of legends, either.”

“Even so, I'm proud of you.” Her arms tightened around him. “I'm so proud of you, Liam.”

He rolled over, visibly surprised. It was not the reaction Alix had expected, and it cut her deeply.
Have I really never told him before?
“Thanks,” he said. “It means a lot.”

She started to squeeze him again, but the motion sent a shock up her arm; she hissed in pain, cradling her injured wrist.

“What's this? Are you hurt?”

“You didn't notice the bandage?”

“Sure, but I didn't realise it was that bad.”

“Broken wrist. A roach tramped on it while I was fighting him.”

Liam arched an eyebrow. “That must have been some roach. Taking revenge for all his squashed brethren, was he?”

She smiled. “It's what the Andithyrians call their conquerors. Guess I picked up the habit somewhere along the way.”

He took her injured hand and kissed her fingers. “How long ago?”

“About a week.”

“It'll be a while before you can hold a sword properly.”

She growled under her breath. “Wonderful timing, isn't it? Some help I'll be to Erik like this.”

“What a pity you have no other useful qualities.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

For a moment the conversation seemed destined to spiral into darkness, but Liam wasn't having it. “Are you fishing? Very well, my lady, I'll indulge you.” He lay back, folding his hands behind his head and adopting a thoughtful expression. “For one, you're quite clever, or so I'm told. Being something of a dullard myself, I have to rely on the testimony of cleverer types. Also—and this one I've witnessed for myself—you're decisive.”

Alix knew she was walking into it, but she asked anyway. “And when exactly did you witness this?”

“Oh, plenty of times. But I think the one that stands out in my mind is the time you grabbed my manhood in the woods.”

“
That's
your example?” she laughed, her indignation only half feigned.

“We'd barely exchanged our first kiss,” he said with mock wistfullness. “Still in the delicate, tender phases of young romance, and the next thing you know . . .” He gestured below his waist, making a fist.

Alix reached down and grabbed him just as she'd done that night in the woods, delighting in the way his whole body stiffened. “It
is
one of your more useful qualities,” she murmured. She watched the desire kindle in his eyes, gripping him firmly until it felt as though she clasped the hilt of a sword.

“See there,” he said, “no need to worry. You're ambidextrous.”

And just like that, the distance between them seemed insignificant, a divide she could easily conquer with nothing more than her body. Slipping her nightgown over her head, Alix pressed herself against him. She let her hands roam, lingering in the places where their bodies touched, hard against soft. Her lips ghosted along the planes and ridges of his chest. “You're beautiful,” she whispered. “You know that, don't you?” He started to answer, but she shifted and let him sink into her, stealing his breath. He closed his eyes, hands gripping her hips until he was buried to the hilt. Alix paused. For a moment she was content just to look at him—the muscled chest, the strong cheekbones, that perfect nose.
Beautiful.
And . . . she laid her hand against his heart, felt its answer against her fingertips.
Beautiful.

His eyes opened, locked with hers. All thought fled from her. Alix moved against him, slowly at first, then faster, her breath growing ragged in her ears. Her hair cascaded around her, head bent, hand braced against his chest, unable to tear her gaze from the sight of him climbing toward ecstasy. His hands moved to her breasts, but it was his eyes that drove Alix over the edge: the glaze of desire, the flutter of long lashes as he bucked beneath her. Alix moved one last time, gasped, and collapsed against him, feeling his heartbeat hammering against her chest.

“Allie,” he whispered. She waited for more, but he seemed to have run out of words.

As for her, she had too many words. So much she needed to say, and no idea where to begin. Silence filled the spaces between gradually slowing breaths. And then he rolled onto his side, and her chance was gone.

Alix fell asleep with her head tucked up against the broad wall of her husband's shoulders.

“G
eneral.”

Rig looked up, expecting bad news, but the expression on Dain Cooper's face was merely apprehensive. “Message from the capital,” he said, holding out a pair of scroll cases. “Two, actually.”

Rig reached for them with all the enthusiasm of a man taking the lead of a vicious dog.
Dear gods, please don't let it be bad news.
But when he unfurled the first scroll and saw the familiar, tidy script, he nearly collapsed in relief. “It's from Erik.” Scanning the page, he added, “He's recovered.”

“Thank the Virtues,” Dain said. “And the commander?”

“He's fine,” Rig said. “Highmount and Rona Brown too. Though”—his brows gathered—“there's not much detail here.”

Dain whispered a prayer of thanks in Onnani, glancing briefly to the ceiling. “What exactly does it say, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Damnably little. Basically, it's just the king telling me he's well and thanking me for my foresight in suggesting the evacuation of Erroman.” Rig put Erik's note aside and took up the second scroll case. “Looks like this one's from Highmount.”
Probably wants to confirm the authenticity of Erik's note, just
in case.
A sensible precaution. Though the previous letter unmistakably came from Erik, Rig would have no way of knowing whether the king was genuinely free of the bloodbond, absent independent confirmation from Liam or the chancellor. “Bloody hells,” he murmured as he read. Dain remained dutifully silent until Rig elaborated. “Alix and the others must have found Rodrik, but only in the nick of time. Says here that Liam was a matter of moments away from being . . .
Bloody hells!
”

“General?”

Reading aloud, Rig said, “‘His Highness was very nearly taken from us, but fortunately, the kingdom was spared that sorrow.'” He snorted and balled up the letter. “Albern sodding Highmount. ‘The kingdom was spared that sorrow.' I imagine Alix and Erik would have taken it badly as well, not to mention Liam himself.”

“I've never met the chancellor, but from what I hear, he's not known for being sentimental.”

“I've come across hailstones with more warmth.” Rig started to add more, but a knock interrupted him. “Come.”

He didn't recognise the soldier at his door. “Beg your pardon, General, but a messenger just arrived from the west. Says it's urgent.”

Rig and Dain exchanged a grim look. “Who's the ranking scout?” Rig asked.

“Lady Kerta Middlemarch. She's waiting for you in the yard.”

The name hadn't meant much to him, but Rig recognised the woman as soon as he saw her, standing in a corner of the yard with Commander Wright and the messenger. She was one of Alix's former unit, and one of only three survivors of the failed mission to Harram. He hadn't realised she was a Middlemarch, though he should have guessed from her prim carriage that she was highborn. “Lady Middlemarch,” he said, acknowledging her with a nod. “A friend of my sister's, aren't you?”

She coloured a little, pleased to be recognised. “Yes, General. An honour to meet you at last.”

“I gather we've news from the west?”

“From the scouting post, yes.” Nodding at the messenger, she said, “Tell the commander general what you've just told me.”

“It's the enemy,” the messenger said, wide-eyed and breathless. A mere boy, he was—sixteen at most.
Are we plucking such green fruit now?
Rig thought wearily. “They've crossed the border, General. A host of five thousand.”

The boy paused as though bracing for an emotional outburst, but Rig just sighed and raked at his beard. He'd been expecting this news for weeks. If anything, he was surprised it had taken this long.

“There's our missing five thousand,” Wright said.

“Where did they cross?”

“The Blacklands,” said Lady Middlemarch. “The same place as before, from the mountains. They must have used the western ford.”

“Meaning the Harrami tribes gave them free passage again.” Rig shook his head in disgust. All this time he'd been worrying that the Harrami weren't helping, but he'd been wrong. They were helping, all right—just the wrong side.

“I have to admit, General, I'm surprised,” Middlemarch said. “I was with His Majesty and Lady Alix in the Broken Mountains, and the tribe that took us captive considered it their sworn duty to defend their territory from foreigners. King Erik barely managed to negotiate our release, and only then by persuading the village council that the Oridians were a threat. It seems strange that the tribes would let Sadik's men through a second time.”

“Strange or not, it's the only explanation.” Not that it mattered anyway. Whichever route they'd come by, the Oridians were here. “What about the garrison I posted at the ford?”

“Completely overrun,” the messenger said, dropping his gaze. “That's why you didn't get a pigeon, General. There was no one left to send it.”

“May they find peace in their Domains,” Wright said gravely.

“I take it the news comes from a returning scouting party?” Rig asked.

Lady Middlemarch nodded. “They spotted the enemy in the woods south of Greenhold. When they rode back to the garrison to report it, they found nothing but a smouldering ruin.”

“When was this?”

“Two days ago. The attack must have been two days before that, given the enemy's location when they were spotted.”

“Disposition?”

She shook her head. “The forest was too dense, but the scouts estimate at least half cavalry.”

I'll bet it's more than that.
If Rig were leading a small host across the border, he'd want as many horses as possible.

“Host of five thousand, half on foot . . .” Dain looked skyward, calculating. “Reckon that puts them somewhere north of Boswyck Valley now, assuming they're headed for Erroman.”

“A safe bet,” Rig said.

“But it makes no sense, General,” said Commander Wright. “Why send such a small host? They can't hold any significant territory with that. Why not invade in force?”

“Because,” Rig said, “it's not an invasion, not yet. It's a trap.”

“Definitely a trap,” Dain agreed. “But do we have any choice?”

“None at all. That's what makes it a good trap. There's nothing standing between that host and the capital. Even assuming Erroman has the manpower to repel them, we don't dare let the enemy chip away at the walls. Too many weak spots as it is. On top of which, if I know the Warlord, they'll have orders to loot and burn along the way. That leaves me no choice but to intercept.”

“Leaving the border underdefended,” Wright finished grimly. “I see.”

“That's why Sadik broke camp,” Rig said, thinking aloud. “He wants to keep us guessing. With his forces unaccounted for, we've no way of knowing whether he'll hit the fort or the citadel.”
Or both
, he amended darkly. The Warlord had the manpower to make it happen.

“What are you orders, General?” Dain asked, sounding remarkably calm for a man whose homeland was about to be conquered.

“Three battalions.”

The messenger paled. Lady Middlemarch's eyes widened. Wright said, “You don't intend to defeat them, then.”

“Can't hope to, not unless I pull major resources off the border, and that's just what Sadik wants. Best I can do is slow them down for a while, give the capital time to prepare.” It reminded him all too much of last spring when he'd ridden out of Blackhold with a paltry force of Blackswords, just enough to keep the enemy busy while his household got to safety. “We'll
tie up that host as long as possible, then wait for Sadik to make the next move. That's the only way I'll know where and when to redeploy.”

“Wish we knew how many horses with them,” Dain said.

“You and me both, but there's nothing to be done.” Turning to Middlemarch, Rig said, “Pick your best. You're with me. Wright, I'll need you here, along with Rollin. If Sadik comes at you—”

“We will give him the fight of his life,” Wright said solemnly.

“Bollocks. I'll not have you or any man throw his life away on a fool's errand. We're too few as it is. If you think you can hold out, fine. Otherwise, retreat. We'll regroup north of here.”

“As you wish, General.”

“As for you, Commander,” he said, turning to Dain, “fancy a promotion? I'm in the market for a new second. I'm sure Liam won't mind.”

Dain flushed, his gaze dropping briefly to his boots. He would be the first man of Onnani blood ever to hold a post of such rank, and he knew it. But when he looked up, he just smiled. “Thought you'd never ask.”

*   *   *

They rode hard all afternoon and much of the night, stopping only when the moon was high. It helped that Rig knew the terrain nearly as well as he knew his own lands, and had taken the trouble to clear a makeshift road along the Gunnar, the better to reposition his forces in haste. The enemy would be hampered by the dense woods and steep slopes of Boswyck Valley, obliged to swing north in order to reach open terrain. Rig, meanwhile, led his forces almost due east, hitting the Imperial Road shortly after dawn and bearing north at speed. If they moved fast enough, they could intercept on a terrain of Rig's choosing. That came at a cost, however, for it meant there was no time to send scouts ahead. Rig would be going in blind. It was a gamble he had no choice but to make.

They came upon the enemy host deep in the Greenlands, stretched out in a wide, well-defended column.

“They're expecting us,” Kerta Middlemarch announced, quite unnecessarily.

“Trap,” Rig reminded her. Swivelling in his saddle, he
raised his arm, calling his men to a halt. When he turned back, he caught Middlemarch surveying the Kingsword column with a troubled expression. Doubtless she was having difficulty imagining what Rig could possibly accomplish with fifteen hundred men.
Plenty
, he answered inwardly.
Not enough.

“You've timed it well, General,” Dain said, lowering his longlens. “If we send the horse archers ahead, they can position along the bluff over there.”

“That's the idea,” Rig said, and with a whistle and a wave, he sent them on. “I want some longbows up there too.”

“Aye, General.” Dain cantered down the line to pass on the order.

“How long do you think we can hold them?” Middlemarch asked.

“Depends. If they've got enough cavalry, this could be the shortest battle in history. Best-case scenario, no more than half a day. Should be enough time for word to reach Erroman, and that's about the most I can hope for.” That, and to live long enough to command the surviving Kingswords in the final battle.

One step at a time, Black.

“They're closing ranks, General,” Middlemarch said, pointing.

“Get to the rear lines, scout. See you at the far end.” So saying, he slammed his visor down, drew his sword, and kicked his horse.

They came at the enemy in a classic pinching manoeuvre, splitting the cavalry in half and riding out wide. The flank wouldn't work, of course—the enemy was ready for that—but the Oridians would be forced to turn to meet the charge, exposing their rear to the archers on the bluff.

Rig rode flat against Alger's neck, sword arm cocked and ready, eyes misting in the wind and dust. Ahead, he could see the Oridian ranks break open as the enemy commander general sent his cavalry surging forth.
One column . . . two, three . . .
And they kept coming, too many to count, too many to fight.

Too many.
The battle had not yet begun, but it was already over.

The grim reality sank like a stone to the bottom of Rig's
belly. At least half cavalry, the scouts had told him. Rig had guessed it would be more; it was what he would have done. Still, he'd hoped to be wrong.
So much for making it to the final battle.
He'd gambled, as he so often did. But this time, he'd lost.

There, you see, Vel? Eldora doesn't fancy me after all.
He'd taken risk after risk in this war; it was bound to catch up with him eventually. Now that it had, he felt strangely at peace with it.

The enemy cavalry was headed straight for them. Rig glanced beside him, buoyed by the sight of his men streaking alongside, lances glinting in the afternoon sun. At least they would die bravely. He'd never had much care for glory, but there was a beauty to their charge that he hoped to carry with him to the afterlife.

He started to point with his sword, to issue a final, futile command, when the crimson wall of horseflesh bearing down on him swerved suddenly. Rig sat back, hauling on Alger's reins and watching in astonishment as the enemy horse peeled away, slowing to a trot at the edge of the field.

What in the Nine Hells?
And then Rig saw the banners. Or rather, he didn't: The Oridian cavalry had lowered their standard, and as he watched, a crimson-clad knight separated himself from the others, walking his horse out toward Rig with the golden trident of Oridia dangling at his side. There, in full view of the whole battlefield, he tossed it to the ground. Behind him, his men put up their lances. He was standing them down.