The Bloodsworn (32 page)

Alix glanced across the table at her brother. He was angry and hurting, enough perhaps to affect his judgement. Rona Brown would side with Liam whatever he said, and Green had admitted that he didn't prefer one option over the other. Erik had similar misgivings about their counsel; Alix could tell by the way he was looking at her. Asking her wasn't symbolic. Her answer could well sway his decision one way or the other.

For a moment, the enormity of it made Alix's head swim. She could feel Albern Highmount's hawkish eyes on her, silently reminding her of his warning months ago:
There will come a time when the memory of this regrettable incident is all that stands between you and another rash decision.
But no—there was nothing rash about this. She was afraid, yes, and angry, but those weren't the things that whispered to her heart in that moment. Instead, the voice she heard was her own, the deepest voice of her blood.

“As bold as a Black,” she said with a thin smile.

Erik nodded slowly. “So be it,” the king said. “We attack at dawn.”

A
lix moved in a world of shadows. Dark shapes shifted behind a veil of predawn mist, indistinguishable but for small glimpses: a glint of metal, a shining patch of horseflesh, the bone-white gleam of war paint. Spectres of war winking in and out of their phantom realm, or so it seemed to Alix. She gauged the activity around her by sound alone, jingling harnesses and creaking leather and the sound of a sword being loosened in its sheath. No one spoke.

Drawing her own blade, she tested her wrist gingerly and found it stiff and sore. Not yet healed, but what could she do? She would rather die than stand down.

Gradually, the sounds faded. The shifting of shadows slowed. They were ready. Alix glanced over at Erik and found him looking back at her, his expression unreadable in the gloom. “It comes at last,” he said. “One way or another, it ends today.”

Alix nodded, girding herself against another swell of fear. It had been coming in waves all night, periods of resigned calm punctuated by spasms of terror, almost like the pains of labour.
Steady
, Alix told herself.
It will pass.

“I had hoped . . .” Erik shook his head. “I thought I would have more time.”

“So did I.”

“The curse of being mortal, I suppose. We always think we'll get more time.”

Alix didn't trust herself to speak; her heart was too full.

Erik sighed, so softly that Alix barely heard. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Battle commanders.” Rig, Liam, and Rona Brown brought their horses forward to stand before their king. “Lady Brown, I want no heroics from you. The reserves are our absolute last resort, so choose your moment well.”

“Aye, sire.”

“Liam, the same goes for you. We stick to the plan.”

“Of course.”

Erik shook his head. “It won't be easy. Your discipline will be sorely tested, brother.”

“I'll be ripped apart in the van,” Rig said flatly. “Heavy cavalry or no, that's just what's going to happen. The rearguard needs to stay in the rear or the king is vulnerable.”

“I understand,” Liam said. “I won't let you down.”

Erik's gaze took in each of them in turn. “It has been an honour, my lords. May Olan guide your hearts and Rahl your blades, and should death find you, may you know peace in your Domains.”

They bowed their heads and separated, Rig to the van, Liam to the rear, Rona to command the reserves. Erik would command the centre, with Raibert Green, Sirin Grey, and Garek Gold fighting alongside. Alix and her guardsmen would do what they always did: protect the king or die trying.

Erik snapped down the visor of his helm. “For Alden,” he said, and he spurred his horse.

*   *   *

It was like watching a storm coming. First the thunder: a distant clash of metal, the cries of horses and men as the armies came together up the field. Then, gradually, Rig's vanguard began to rustle like a forest buffeted by strong winds. Alix watched as the turmoil moved steadily back through the lines until the entire contingent boiled. And then the enemy broke through, the storm crashing over them in full devastating force.

Heavy cavalry pierced the rear lines of the van, shredding
it into ribbons as though a great claw had raked through the ranks. They didn't turn to finish the job; Sadik had vanguard to spare, and they rumbled toward Erik's centre now, bloodied lances gleaming, thousands of hooves sending a great cloud of dust into the sky and obscuring the vanguard.

“Archers!”
Erik cried.

From the flanks, the longbows thumped, sending a volley arcing into the sky. A few horses skidded and fell; men screamed and pitched from their saddles. But most of the horde thundered on, undaunted, a terrifying wall of blades and beasts and cruel-tipped spears.

“Lances ready!”

Alix scarcely had time to obey before the Oridian cavalry broke over the pikemen. The first few lines of enemy horse shattered, but there were so many,
so many
, and they were streaking toward her, horses wild-eyed and spattered with gore, riders screaming their war cries and turning her blood to ice. With a feral cry of her own, Alix spurred her horse.

She lost her lance on the first charge, punching it through the breastplate of a passing rider and nearly unseating herself as the weapon was torn from her saddle. She had only a sword now, scant protection against an enemy lance. But she had no more than a heartbeat to think on it; an Oridian rider was bearing down on her, lance aimed at her gut. Alix did the only thing she could, swerving suddenly so that her horse took the brunt of the blow. She dove from the saddle as the mare screamed and went down, jarring the Oridian's lance from his grasp. The knight was thrown off balance and Alix didn't hesitate, lashing out at his horse's hock to sever the tendon. The animal buckled. The knight tried to dive free, but he wasn't fast enough; Alix ran him through from behind.

She whirled to look for Erik. He was still on horseback, Raibert Green at one flank, Pollard at the other. Alix started toward him, but she'd scarcely taken a step before she was intercepted by an enemy foot soldier. He was on her in a heartbeat, polearm swiping at her midsection with enough force to feel the draught. She skidded back on the balls of her feet. He followed the move with a quick jab, but Alix was ready, twisting aside and charging him before he could recover from the swing. Taking her bloodblade two-handed, she stabbed up
under his exposed shoulder, the bloodbond guiding the tip of her sword into the joint between cuirass and pauldron. His mail shirt deflected the worst of it, but the pain brought him down to one knee, and that was enough. Alix hacked open his neck. A clean kill, but it came with a price: The impact was brutal on her wrist. Her arm throbbed from thumb to elbow. Already she could hear another wave of cavalry crashing over them, and this time the Kingsword pikes were largely spent, leaving only a thin barrier to protect them from the charge. Between the teeming mass of bodies, she could see thousands of pounds of horseflesh bearing down on her.

Alix stood paralysed, the calm in the eye of the storm.
I'm going to die.
The realisation came to her not in a bolt of panic, but as a cold, dull ache.

The scream of a horse pierced the haze. Alix turned in time to see Erik tumbling from his saddle. For a moment she thought she dreamed: She was back at Boswyck, watching in horror as her king was surrounded . . . But no—Raibert Green was there, shouting for someone. Shouting for her.

All thought fell away. Alix dove between the bodies, making for her king.

*   *   *

Even before he ordered the charge, Liam knew it was too late. He'd done as Erik asked, waited as the enemy trampled its way through the van, slaughtering untold numbers on the first pass. He'd watched the crimson wave break over the Kingsword centre, grinding his teeth as the screams reached his ears.
The rearguard needs to stay in the rear
, Rig had said,
or the king is vulnerable
.

Well and good, but the king was vulnerable
now
. It was Boswyck all over again, and Liam would be damned if he'd play the part of the Raven, sitting idle with the Pack while his brother's army was butchered.

“Bugger this,” he growled. “We're going.”

“Thank the gods,” said Ide.

Liam drew his sword.
“Wolves! With me!”

He brought them out wide, making for the enemy centre. All he needed was to get enough pressure off the Kingswords for them to regroup. It meant riding under a hail of arrows, for
enemy longbowmen had taken up positions along the Kingsword flank, crouched behind tower shields as they let fly volley after volley. Apparently the Warlord didn't give a damn how many of his own men went down under the deluge; he had more than enough to spare.

Liam pushed his horse to a full gallop, offering as difficult a target as he could while he ran the gauntlet. Arrows peppered the grass around him, but he got through unscathed; daring a glance behind him, he saw that the Pack had taken minimal damage. They were moving too fast for anything but a lucky shot to find flesh. Meanwhile, the Kingsword horse archers had peeled off the van and were circling back around the row of tower shields to take the enemy archers from behind. Liam chose to believe that meant Rig was still alive and giving orders from whatever was left of the vanguard.

Behind the melee, the enemy lines were a mess. Sadik hadn't had time to issue orders, so his commanders were making it up as they went along. Not that it mattered—at this point, Sadik could vanish into thin air and it wouldn't make much difference. Tactics were an unnecessary bonus when your army could trample over the enemy like a herd of stampeding bison.

But that didn't mean Liam was going to give up. He'd had a good look and thought he spied a weak spot; veering sharply, he cut in.

Wooden dummies
, he told himself,
just like in the yard. That's all they are.

His bloodblade flashed, biting through flesh and mail, severing limbs and heads and anything else that got in his way. Ide rode close at his side; he could hear her grunting and swearing even above the chaos of battle. The Wolves carved a trench through the soft Oridian flank, broke though the far side, and wheeled to do it all over again. Just a few passes, enough to buy the Kingswords some breathing room, and then he would close up the rear . . .

Liam was turning his horse for a third pass when he saw the White banner go down at the heart of the Kingsword centre.

“No.” Allie was with that banner. Erik's banner. If it had fallen . . .

Ide drew up at his side. She'd seen it too. “Can't be,” she said. “Can't be.”

Liam gripped the reins, numb with horror. The words he'd spoken to Alix the day before came back to him, bitterly vivid.
I have to believe I'll be given a chance to fix this.
“I'm too late,” he whispered.

“Not your fault,” Ide said. “Your orders—”

She didn't understand. Liam kicked his horse. He rode harder than he ever had in his life, the lines whipping past him in a blur. Dimly, he was aware that the battle had slowed; he didn't dare contemplate what that meant.
Please, Farika
, he prayed,
please don't let me be too late
.

*   *   *

Alix fought raggedly, keeping her foes at bay with sloppy two-handed swings. She could barely hold her sword. She gritted her teeth through the pain, keeping tight to Erik's left flank while Raibert Green covered the right. Pollard had been taken in the back while dragging the king away from his horse; his body lay near that of Erik's destrier, spitted cruelly upon a spear. The column of enemy cavalry that had broken through did not long survive, but the infantry were on them now, bloodred tabards haemorrhaging out of the Oridian centre in an unstanchable deluge.

Alix tried not to think. She swung and she hacked and she pivoted, glancing over her shoulder every few moments to check on Erik. The king fought with grim determination, even though he could not fail to notice how steadily they'd been pushed back. He gave no orders. What orders were there to give?

The bodies were so thick now that Alix couldn't see more than a few feet away. Oridian and Kingsword bled together in a teeming wall of metal and horseflesh. And then suddenly the wall shattered, a massive destrier blasting through like a stone flung from a catapult. Its rider was huge, more powerfully built even than Rig; he gripped a greatsword one-handed and wielded it to devastating effect, scything through flesh and bone as though it were ripe wheat. He wore bloodred armour gilded at the pauldrons and a helm fashioned to resemble the snarling maw of a carrion wolf, the Oridian symbol of death.
Again and again he swung his sword, reaping the bodies around him with little regard for friend or foe.

The Warlord.

The sight of him turned Alix's guts to water. She dove at Erik, started to tell him to run, but it was too late—he'd seen Sadik too, and a strange look came over him. Having a sudden premonition of what he was about to do, Alix reached for him, but he stepped away from her and cried,
“Stop!”

At first, nothing happened. No one could hear him above the fray. He shouted an order at his flag-bearer, and the man brandished the White banner high.

That got the Warlord's attention. Reining in, Sadik threw a gauntleted fist in the air. Erik did the same, and gradually the fighting subsided. Oridian and Kingsword alike separated and stepped back warily, opening a ring of space at the centre of the merged armies.

“Enough, Sadik!” Erik's voice rang out clearly against a sudden, eerie silence. “Will you hear terms?”

The Warlord walked his huge destrier forward. Alix stepped in front of Erik, but he put a hand on her arm and moved her gently aside. The wolf helm gazed down on them in silence. Then Sadik dipped his head and tore it free. Cold blue eyes stared out from a face hewn from granite, its brutal edges framed by a short-cropped beard as meticulous as that of the late Arran Green. “King Erik White,” he said. Looking Alix up and down, he added, “And your troublesome bodyguard.” He levelled a gauntleted finger at her. “You owe me a bloodbinder, my lady.”