The Bloodsworn (27 page)

The enemy cavalry was
standing down
.

Rig looked up at the bluff, but the Kingsword horse archers hadn't even moved yet. The other half of Rig's pinching manoeuvre had continued the charge; Kingsword cavalry ploughed into the enemy infantry in a crash of spears and horseflesh. The Oridians had more than enough horses to protect their footmen; there was no reason for the enemy cavalry to stand down.
Unless he's abandoning his comrades, just as the Raven did at Boswyck Valley . . .

Oridian horns blared, urgently summoning their cavalry to the defence of the infantry, but still the enemy horse did not stir. Rig glanced back at the cavalry commander, met his gaze from across the field. Slowly, deliberately, the crimson knight
inclined his head. There was no mistaking it—he
was
surrendering. But why?

Some kind of trap, maybe, even more elaborate than the one they'd been expecting? But no—that made no sense. A moment ago, the enemy had been certain of victory. Now, as Rig watched, their infantry was being overrun by Kingsword cavalry.
This must be how Sadik felt when the Raven stood down at Boswyck.
Surprised. Confused. But the Warlord hadn't hesitated, and Rig didn't dare hesitate now.

He signalled to the horse archers. They poured down the slope en masse, while behind them the longbows loosed their shafts in a high arc to rain down on the rear columns of Oridian infantry. Rig kicked Alger into action, his men following hard at his heels. They broke over the enemy foot in a thundering wave, carving a bloody trench through their middle while the horse archers scoured the rear. Punching through the far side, Rig pivoted, preparing for another pass. The infantry lines had shattered under the Kingsword assault. Half were in full retreat; they would be easy prey now.

Just as Rig was about to order a second charge, the Oridian cavalry commander rode hard across their view. For half a heartbeat, Rig feared he'd been duped after all, but no—the Oridian knight had the golden trident in hand again, upside down in the symbol of surrender, waving it frantically for all to see. The battle slowed, Kingswords and Oridians alike distracted by the spectacle of the crimson knight cantering up and down the lines, brandishing his upside-down flag. Having secured everyone's attention, the knight turned his horse toward Rig and hurled the trident like a spear. It arced through the air to impale the ground barely a stride in front of Alger's hooves.

“General Black!” The crimson knight's voice rang out over the dwindling sounds of battle. “I did not stand my men down to be slaughtered!” He spoke in Oridian, with a highborn accent.

Rig raised a hand, and those Kingswords who had not already put up their weapons did so. A few of the enemy took the opportunity to break and flee, but otherwise the battlefield stood still, as though time itself had been frozen.

Rig crossed the field at a trot, drawing up his horse before
the crimson knight. The man was impressive up close: tall and straight-backed, gold filigree on his breastplate and gauntlets tooled to resemble eagle talons. His visor was down, but a pair of keen blue eyes stared out through the slat. “No one attacked your unit,” Rig said in Oridian, gesturing at the enemy cavalry. “There they stand, unmolested. These, on the other hand”—he indicated the infantry around them—“continued to fight until a moment ago. What would you have me do?”

Before the other man could answer, one of his comrades rode up and barked something at him, gesturing angrily at the confused knot of soldiers behind them. He wore fancy armour too—a nobleman like the crimson knight, and higher ranking, judging from the golden trident adorning his cape. The commanding officer, Rig guessed. The two men argued—in a heated undertone at first, rising in pitch until the newcomer cried, “You disgrace the Trionate, Corren!”

“The Trionate has disgraced itself.”

“You self-righteous—”

“The thing is done. You're free to follow your own conscience, Hictor, as I must follow mine.” Raising his voice for the benefit of his men, the crimson knight said formally, “General Black, I hereby offer my surrender, and that of my men. I ask that you grant amnesty for all who seek it. We are in your power.”

Rig glanced over the battlefield and realised it was true. Somehow, impossibly, they
were
in his power, an enemy force more than three times the strength of his own. If not for this man, the Kingswords would have been slaughtered. Instead they were victorious, and as an added bonus, they'd just secured several battalions of desperately needed horseflesh. “Not to sound ungrateful,” Rig said, eyeing the man called Corren warily, “but
why
?”

“I don't owe you an explanation, General,” the crimson knight said coolly. “My officers know why I have done this, and they alone have the right to ask. In any case, now is hardly the time. Do you accept my surrender?”

Luck is not a Holy Virtue
, Vel had once told him. At that moment, Rig wasn't so sure.

Dain Cooper appeared, weaving his horse through the
Kingsword ranks to draw up at Rig's side. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked incredulously. Like most of the Kingswords, he didn't speak enough Oridian to follow the exchange.

“Believe it or not,” Rig murmured, “it is. Stand by.” Switching back to Oridian, he said, “I accept your surrender. Those who lay down their arms will not be harmed. But I can't simply let you go free on Aldenian soil. I am duty-bound to place you under arrest and escort you to Erroman. Do you agree to those terms?”

The crimson knight inclined his head. “But know this: Neither I nor any man under my command shall bear arms against the Trionate, nor betray secrets that may result in the deaths of our countrymen.”

“Fair enough,” Rig said. To the other officer, the one called Hictor, he said, “And what about you? Like your countryman here, I've seen enough bloodshed for a lifetime. But if you fancy some more, say the word.” He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Taking the cue, Dain raised his hand, preparing to give a signal to the Kingswords behind him.

The Oridian's face twisted into a snarl of impotent rage. “What choice do I have? Without cavalry, my men are little more than fodder for your horses.”

“Glad we worked that out.” Turning to Dain, Rig said, “Disarm them. No thieving, no beating.”

“Understood.”

The Kingswords set to work. In spite of Rig's promise, there were a few scuffles, and one Oridian foot soldier succeeded in getting himself run through resisting disarmament. Fine words notwithstanding, not all of Corren's men, and fewer still of Hictor's, were happy about surrendering to the enemy. But the job got done, and by sunset, they were heading back down the Imperial Road toward Pir, fifteen hundred Kingswords forming a ring around five thousand Oridians on foot. Only Corren was permitted to keep his mount; he rode at Rig's side, a place of honour.

“What you said earlier, about not owing me an explanation.” Rig glanced over at the other man. He'd removed his helm, revealing a middle-aged man with hair as black as Rig's, except where it was dusted with silver. Seen from a few paces away, they might have passed for father and son. “You're right, you don't owe me one, but . . .”

A thin smile passed over Corren's face. “But you would hear it anyway.”

“If you're willing to tell me.”

Corren was silent for long enough that Rig figured he wouldn't answer. Then he said, “Do you know much of our religion, General?”

“Some. I know you worship the Three: Birth, Life, and Death. I know Varad is meant to be the mortal incarnation of Life, and the Priest and the Warlord represent Birth and Death. That's about it.”

Corren nodded. “Of the Three, Birth is the most revered, because she alone has the power to create. But something cannot come from nothing, even for a goddess. In order to bestow her gifts, she requires the energy of mortals.”

“She needs worshippers, you mean.”

“Our devotion is what makes all this possible,” he said, gesturing at the fields around him.

“Forgive me, Commander, but what does this have to do with you throwing down your banners?”

“The war began as a holy undertaking, to convert souls to the true religion.”

“So they tell me. Except Alden is the fourth country on your list. Your goddess must be very hungry, Commander.”

“You misunderstand. The goddess doesn't consume our souls, she transforms them. As a blacksmith moulds molten steel, so the goddess harnesses the raw material of our souls to forge new life, and in so doing, preserves our energy within the sacred cycle of the Three. At the end of my life, the goddess will lie with Death. In return, he will release my energy to her, and through the goddess's power I will be reborn. As a man, perhaps. Or as grass, or as a deer. Do you see?”

Rig didn't see, and he was losing patience. He should have known asking too many questions would only earn him a lecture on religion.
Bloody zealots. They're even worse than the Onnani.

“This only happens because I'm a believer,” Corren went on. “When
your
life is over, General Black, Death will claim you, as he claims us all. But the goddess will not come to him to retrieve your energy, and so you will not be reborn. You will drift for eternity. You will be
nothing
. Lost to the sacred cycle, for your
energy won't contribute to new life. A tragedy for you, and for us all. Do you see now? Conversion is not about strengthening the goddess, it's about saving souls. There can be no more righteous quest.” Corren looked away. “Or so I believed.”

“But you don't believe it anymore.”

He sighed. “Saving souls is a righteous quest, but I'm no longer convinced that's what we're doing. The Priest is dead, and the King. Only the Warlord is left, and I do not believe he fights for souls. He fights for his own greed and bloodlust, and I will not be a part of it, even if it means being branded a traitor. As you said earlier, there has been too much death already.”

Rig nodded slowly; he understood now. “A hard choice. You have my respect, Commander.” Somehow, he doubted that was much consolation.

They rode on in silence, Rig turning the conversation over in his mind. Since learning of the spy in his ranks, he'd lost hours of sleep wondering what could prompt a man to betray his own country. Here, at least, was a possible answer.
Could it be something like that? Someone who legitimately believes he's doing the right thing?

A cloud of dust down the road interrupted Rig's reverie: a rider moving at speed. Shielding his eyes, Corren said, “One of yours, General?”

“Must be.” Rig cantered out ahead, Kerta Middlemarch falling in beside him.

“One of our scouts,” she said. “Heading from the border, looks like. This can't be good news.”

“No,” Rig said grimly, “it can't.”

B
rother, please . . .

Erik's eyes snapped open. A shower of sparks swirled against stone, sending tongues of flame leaping out from stacked timber.

“No!”

He lunged at the inferno, knowing it was already too late . . .

The clatter of an iron poker hitting the floor jarred Erik from the dream. A serving girl stood by the hearth, eyes wide with terror. “Forgive me, sire!” She dropped into a curtsey. “The fire was cold . . . I thought you would want . . . Forgive me!”

Erik sagged back against the bed, drawing deep, ragged breaths. By the time he opened his eyes again, the serving girl had fled. He stayed where he was for long moments, letting his pulse slow. Then he rolled to his feet and padded across the cold stone floor. The water in the washbasin was cold too; the serving girl had not had a chance to add hot water before he had frightened her off. Just as well—the water was bracing, throwing off the last cobwebs of sleep.

Sleep.
Erik smiled wryly at himself in the looking glass. How long had it been since he had truly slept? Judging from the hollowed-out face staring back at him, it had been a long
time indeed. He looked down at his bare chest. That too looked like someone else's, someone not nearly as fit. Nothing about the man in the mirror looked as it should.

He shaved. A superficial gesture, but it helped; the face in the looking glass was younger now, not quite so shadowed. Erik tied his hair back and dressed, choosing a particularly splendid doublet. That helped too. But what truly put the steel back in his spine was opening the door to find a familiar figure waiting for him. “Good morning, Alix,” he said, and the words were better than any tonic.

Her hazel eyes lit up when she saw him. “You look refreshed. I was worried. The serving girl left in . . . something of a hurry.”

“Poor thing. I gave her quite a fright, I think.”

Her gaze was sympathetic. “Nightmare?”

“The nightmare is over,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “Whatever comes, we're together again, all of us. I understand more than ever what that's worth.”

She laid a hand over his. “Ready?”

“Not remotely,” he said with a weary smile, “but I have you to help me.”

He headed for the study, Alix's footfalls matching his, her presence a shield at his back. With each step, he felt stronger. His tread grew bolder, his gaze more keenly focused. All along the corridor, servants and attendants paused in their work. Erik felt their eyes on him, sensed the subtle current of hope running between them as they watched their king and his bodyguard stride past.

They turned a corner to find Raibert Green on his way out of the study. “Blessed Farika,” he said, his kind face breaking into a smile. “There's a sight to soothe the soul.”

“It's good to see you, my friend,” Erik said, clasping his arm warmly.

Green held out his arm to Alix next, but she brushed it aside and embraced him. “It's been too long.”

Green sighed. “I have much to answer for. To you especially, Lady Alix. I should have realised. I should have—”

“Rubbish,” she said. “You couldn't have known. As ever, you did what you thought was right.”

Green was not convinced; he looked away, pursing his lips.
Regrets and more regrets
, Erik thought.
None of us is spared.
Aloud, he said, “We move forward. There is too much ahead to waste time looking back.”

Wonderful advice, Your Majesty. You might consider following it yourself.
The voice in his head was Tom's; Erik could almost picture his brother standing there, smiling wryly. There was no magic here, only a memory—but in a way that was worse, for unlike the bloodbond, it could never be banished.

They found Liam and Highmount in the study, as expected. Liam was seated behind the desk, but he sprang to his feet when Erik entered. “Sorry,” he said, colouring. “We weren't . . . er . . .”

“Weren't expecting me.” Erik made a dismissive gesture. “It's fine, brother. It looks good on you.” He summoned his most charming smile.

“Not a very comfortable chair,” Liam said. “Metaphorically, I mean. Physically, it's tops, obviously. Really nice, er, cushion . . .” He grimaced, glancing skyward. “I'll stop talking now.”

Erik laughed. It was as if they had gone back in time and the man before him was the old Liam, the awkward scout who could never quite meet the king's eye.
Here's a fellow I haven't seen in a while
, he started to say—before realising how bitterly ironic that would be coming from him.

Rudi trotted over, sniffing at the newcomer. Erik took an involuntary step back. His last encounter with Liam's dog had nearly cost him a hand. But the wolfhound just wagged his nub and lapped at Erik's fingers in greeting. “Are we friends again?” Erik murmured, scratching his ears. For some reason, that comforted him.

He sat, motioning for the others to do the same. Rudi flopped down at his boots. Alix started to take her customary place in the corner, but Erik stayed her with a gesture. “Take a seat, Captain. I need advisors more than I need bodyguards today.”

Alix and Liam exchanged a look of profound relief. Highmount stroked his beard approvingly. Erik pretended not to notice.

“We have had a message from Lord Black this morning,” Highmount said. “He had word from the Blacklands yesterday: The garrison in the foothills was overrun a little less than a week ago.”

Erik closed his eyes briefly. “So it has begun.”

“Afraid so,” Liam said.

A breath of despair rippled through Erik, like wind through wheat. If the enemy had invaded the Blacklands, it meant they had crossed through Harram. Again.
If only you hadn't failed in Ost . . .
But he had, spectacularly. Not only had the Harrami king refused to help, Erik's appeals had obviously fallen on deaf ears among the mountain tribes as well, for they had let the enemy pass through their lands a second time. “How many?”

“Five thousand,” Liam said. “Rig has ridden out to intercept.”

“What about the border?” Alix asked.

“He left as many men as he could,” Liam said, “but he didn't dare let the enemy head this way unchallenged.”

“Five thousand.” Alix frowned. “That's no invasion. It sounds like a trap.”

“To me too,” Liam said. “But neither of us has anything to tell your brother about tactics. If we smell a trap, you can bet he did too. I'm sure he knows what he's doing.”

There was a stretch of silence. Erik could feel their eyes on him.
They look to you, Your Majesty. Don't keep them waiting.
But Erik had no words of wisdom to impart, still less a decision. He settled for a relevant question. “Whom did he leave in command of the fort?”

“Rollin.” A bemused expression came over Liam's face. “Meanwhile, he commandeered my second. Promoted him to adjunct commander.”

Alix's eyebrows flew up. “Dain Cooper?”

“A shrewd move,” Highmount declared, “given our urgent need of Onnani support.”

Erik doubted very much that Rig had had politics in mind, but Highmount was right—they needed to contact the Onnani straightaway. That much, at least, was clear to him. “Send a message to First Speaker Kar. Let him know the enemy has crossed the border and a full-scale invasion is imminent. It's now or never. The fleet may not be ready, but they have foot soldiers, and we need them now.”

“If I might suggest,” Liam put in, “send one to Speaker Syril as well.”

“Syril?” Erik frowned; the name meant nothing to him.

“His voice carries weight in the Republicana, especially
with those who've been reluctant to get behind the war effort.” Turning to Highmount, Liam added, “I can help with the drafting, if you'd like. I think I know how to get through to him. We'll have to be discreet, of course—we don't want to get Kar's feathers in a ruffle—but I have an idea how we can manage that too.”

Highmount could not have looked more astonished if Liam had casually announced he could fly.

“It seems as though your time in Onnan has paid dividends, brother,” Erik said. “Well done.”

The look that crossed Liam's face was somewhere between pride and pain. “Thanks,” he mumbled awkwardly. “That means a lot, coming from you.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but thought better of it.

“The message from Rig,” Alix said. “It came by pigeon?”

Liam nodded. “He sent it just before he rode out. Two days ago, by the looks of things.”

“Meaning he rode into battle yesterday.” Her gaze fell to her lap.

She was right, Erik knew. Even as they sat here talking, her brother could be lying dead in a field somewhere north of Boswyck Valley.

“I'm sure he's fine, Allie,” Liam said. “Rig knows how to handle these things.”

“He's bought us precious time,” Erik added. “All we can do now is make sure it doesn't go to waste.” He said it with all the conviction he could muster, but it sounded hollow even to him.
Feeble, Your Majesty
, said the voice in his head that sounded like Tom.

They were looking at him again, waiting. “Well,” Erik said. “Let's get those letters off to Onnan.”

“I guess you'll want Ambassador Corse in here straightaway?” Liam asked.

Erik looked at him blankly.

“I second that recommendation,” Highmount said. “He would certainly take it ill if we contacted his capital without informing him.”

“Yes,” Erik said, “of course. I should have mentioned that.” So why hadn't he?

Highmount nodded and withdrew. Liam, meanwhile, hovered. “Er,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I just thought maybe . . . when you're done with the ambassador . . .” He shifted on his feet. “Maybe you might want to join me on the walls? See what we've done with the defences? I mean, there was only so much we could manage, but you should probably have a look. On top of which, I guess it would be a good idea for people to see us together, after . . . you know.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

“That sounds like a very sensible suggestion, Liam.” So sensible, indeed, that Erik was horrified he hadn't thought of it himself.

“Good. I'll, um . . . leave you to it, then.” He departed, but not before throwing a worried look over his shoulder.

Erik swore under his breath.

“Give it time,” Alix said gently. “You'll find your rhythm soon enough.”

“Will I?” He closed his eyes, but all he saw was Tom's face.

“Of course,” she said, sounding just as feeble as her king.

*   *   *

Erik decided to turn in early that evening, and Alix didn't discourage him. He'd struggled to make it through the day; he needed his rest. In public, he had largely managed to keep the royal mask in place, smiling and nodding as he received the inevitable stream of well-wishers. But in the moments between, when they were alone, he'd sagged in his chair, head cradled in his hands. Liam had spoken of his brother's pain, of the guilt he suffered for what he'd almost done. But it was the doubt that truly crippled him, Alix knew. She told herself it was only natural after what he'd been through, but the truth was, it terrified her. Though Liam had done an admirable job of keeping things running—better than she would have imagined—Alden needed her king, now more than ever.

Such were her thoughts when she nearly collided with a priestess.

“Sorry,” she said, steadying herself against the wall. “Had my head down.”

“Heavy thoughts,” Vel said.

“Heavier than I've ever known.”

“Do you wish to discuss it? Perhaps I can help.” This in the priestess voice, her dark eyes full of wisdom and empathy.

“Thank you, but I'm not sure I have the energy just now.” Anxious to change the subject, she added, “What about you, are you finding your way all right?”

“I am utterly lost, in fact. Figuratively and literally.” Vel scowled at the walls, as if they were to blame.

“It's overwhelming, I know. We're down to a skeleton crew at the moment or Arnot would have assigned someone to you.”

“I heard. Most of the capital has been evacuated, they tell me. That accounts for the streets being so deserted when we arrived yesterday. I had wondered.”

Alix smiled. “Probably not the Erroman you imagined.”

“This place . . .” Vel's gaze roamed over the corridor. “It occupies so much of my people's folklore, good and bad. I'm not sure what I expected it to be, but . . .”

“Disappointed?”

“That is hardly the word.” Vel reached for one of the windows, fingertips dusting across the etched glass. “I have never been any place like this. The finery, the courtly manners . . .” Her eyes met Alix's briefly before dropping to the floor. “Is this how you grew up? Is this . . . ?”