The Bloodforged (33 page)

But this was more than a crime against his country. This was
blasphemy
. The murder of a Trion, anointed by the gods . . . The mere thought of it made his head throb. It would be a year, a full cycle of the sun, before Varad's soul was reborn, and months after that before the new Priest—assuming he was in place by then—could determine which child born on that day was the reincarnation of the King. Such a journey was for the gods to initiate, not men. Taking it into his own hands would most assuredly not situate Aradok well in the next life.

This is not about you
, he reminded himself.
It is about her.

The gold they'd promised was more than enough. So much, indeed, that he'd almost feared it couldn't be true, that it was some kind of trap. But when they'd told him who ordered the deed, he'd known the offer was real. The royal family of Alden must have mountains of gold at their fingertips, and they were desperate. Desperation was something Aradok knew all about.

A month, the healers had given him. Maybe less, if the growth started to crowd his windpipe. Already, people were turning away from him in the street, disgusted by the sheer size of the cancer that was squeezing the life from him. As for Caria, she did her best to be strong, but he could tell she was terrified. Bad enough to be branded a harlot for the rest of her days, but how would she care for the baby? No one would take
pity on the bastard child of a monk, the living embodiment of a shame condemned by gods and men alike.

Footfalls sounded through the passageway, snapping Aradok back to the present. Nausea reared up inside him.
This is it.
The King had come, as he did every day, to bathe in the sacred waters of the fountain. He would be alone. The Crimson Guard would stand watch outside the doors, thinking their Trion quite safe within the fountain chamber. There was only one way in or out, and aside from the fountain itself, the temple contained but one other chamber, a small cell where the caretaker lived. Where Aradok lived.

He swallowed again, painfully. He fingered the trigger of his crossbow. He moved.

As he stepped out of the narrow passageway, his eyes fell upon the King. Varad was undressing—with some difficulty, for his infirmities had become grave. He was half tangled in his robes, face obscured by a billowing sleeve. Aradok raised the crossbow.

The King turned.
He was not alone.

Aradok registered the fact in the instant before he fired, but it was too late: The quarrel snapped loose. A pair of hands continued to turn Varad about, to help the ailing Trion out of his robes. The servant stepped unwittingly between the quarrel and the King.

There was a scream. It was Aradok's. A Crimson Guardsman charged into the fountain chamber, sword raised.

A servant. There wasn't supposed to be a servant.

The crossbow fell from numb fingers. Aradok sank to his knees. He looked into the eyes of his Trion, saw nothing but empty confusion. A shadow fell over him, crimson reflected in the white marble tile of the floor.

Caria
, he thought.

The sword fell.

“L
osses?” Rig asked.

“Two thirds, or thereabouts, including Herwin.” Morris's gaze was steady, his voice as impassive as Rig's. Now was not the time for temper. Save that for the battlefield. Save that for Sadik.

“Where did his men fall back to?”

Morris dropped a long finger onto the map. “Reckon the enemy didn't pursue because he was afraid of stretching himself too thin. Better to consolidate his hold on the ford, make sure we can't take it back.”

“Can we?” Vel asked quietly. “Take it back?”

It was Commander Wright who answered. “Not as things stand, Daughter. Assailing a choke point like that is akin to laying siege to a castle, which is why General Black was able to hold the ford for so long against superior numbers.”

He wasn't trying to be patronising, but Vel bristled all the same. “I am aware of the tactical basics, Commander. I simply wondered whether General Black might have devised one of those unconventional solutions you claim to admire so much.”

Rig touched her arm discreetly, and she subsided. Wright, meanwhile, stiffened under the rebuke like a soldier being upbraided by a superior. This in spite of the fact that the man was more than twice her age.
The power of the clergy
, Rig thought absently. The Oridians were said to be the same. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could use that somehow.

But not today. Today, he had other ideas. “We go ahead as planned,” he announced. “Let's get that falcon in the air.”

Morris swore under his breath, shook his head. But they'd been over this too many times, and anyway, he would never
question Rig's orders in front of others. So he just said, “Aye, General.”

“Take heart, Morris. The loss of the ford might even play into our hands.”

“If you say so, General.” He headed for the door.

Silence followed his exit. Commander Wright shifted uncomfortably. Clearing his throat, he said, “I would not presume to disagree with you, General Black. The gods know you have proven yourself time and again, especially in situations in which you are visibly at a disadvantage . . .”

Rig looked up from the map. “But?”

“But you have at least seven hundred fewer men today than you did two days ago. An officer lost. The ford in enemy hands. Whatever you're planning—and I do understand why you haven't divulged all the details—it obviously relies on the Resistance, or you would not have sent that falcon off. But we know so little about them—what they're capable of, whether we can trust them. I must ask, General, is this wise?”

“Probably not, but I hope Eldora watches over us all the same.”

“She will,” Vel said automatically.

Wright nodded, as if this satisfied him. “Shall we pray, Daughter?”

“Of course,” she said. “And you, General? Will you pray with us?”

Rig looked at the map, seeing all the invisible battle lines he'd drawn up in his head. Two nights ago, in the fog of half-sleep, they'd made so much sense. Today, in the dark hours before dawn . . .

“You know something, Daughter? I think I will.”

*   *   *

Rig paced the
length of the makeshift wall walk, twitching with nerves. He wanted so badly to be out there in the field, under an Andithyrian sky, feeling the Andithyrian breeze on his face. It would have felt like a victory to cross the river with the others, however clandestinely, to set foot behind enemy lines. He would have liked to ride with Morris as they rammed a pike up the enemy's ass. But it was not to be. A commander general couldn't personally lead every mission, especially not
one as risky as this. He'd need to be flexible, to think on his feet, and he couldn't do that if he was busy trying to look after his own hide on the battlefield.

He envied Morris. His second would be guiding his destrier down the lines at this very moment, voice pitched to carry, filling Kingsword heads with visions of triumph in the face of steep odds. Honest enough that the men would believe him, but not so honest that they'd lose heart. A hopeless battle is a lost battle, Rig knew.

He followed the walk around the corner of the southwest tower, boards creaking under his boots. Inside, a handful of archers turned away from the arrowslits to smile at him nervously. They had no idea what was coming, but they worried all the same. After all, the fort was near empty, the two thousand men it sheltered having ridden out at dawn, leaving only the Onnani battalion and a few bands of archers. Even more tellingly, their commander general had been around the full perimeter of the fort twice now, scanning the meagre timber fortifications for gaps, weaknesses that could be exploited—as though there were a damned thing he could do about it. Rig knew he was making them anxious, but it couldn't be helped. He'd become adept at hiding his emotions over the years—not as good as Erik, maybe, but better than most—and he'd learned to be especially careful on the cusp of battle. But there were limits to his skill, and he'd reached them. There was simply too much at stake.

So much so that when the cry came, as he'd known it would, Rig experienced a momentary weakness in the knees.

“Enemy spotted at the checkpoint!”

Rig couldn't see the runner, but he could hear her from clear across the compound. So could everyone else: Heads turned, bodies stiffened. From the other side of the fort, Commander Wright sent him a long, hard look. Rig swore under his breath. “Runner! Up here, now!”

She swept off her foaming horse and scrambled up the stairs, thumping out a swift salute.

“You report to me,” Rig growled, “not the entire fort.”

“Yes, General. It's only . . .” She swallowed, darted a glance over the palisade. “They've never been this close before.”

“Yeah, well, tighten your buckles, because they're about to get a whole lot closer.”

She paled. “General?”

“They shot down the falcon, I presume?”

“That's right,” she said, confusion knitting her features. “But how did you know? I thought I was bringing word. Was someone else quicker?”

“Never mind that. What did the scouts say?”

“Just that the enemy seemed to be waiting for the bird, as if they knew it was coming.”

Rig nodded. “Good.”

“I . . .” She blinked. “Begging your pardon, General, but how is that good?”

He opened his mouth to explain it to her, to all of them, but he never got the chance. A flaming arrow arced over the palisade. A long-range shot, judging from the angle; it landed harmlessly in the middle of the yard. But it wasn't alone: A whole volley followed, a skyful of shooting stars raining down on them in a fiery deluge.

Shouts went up all over the fort. The men in the courtyard scattered. The rest, including Rig, hunkered down and nocked their arrows.

“They're here,” the runner gasped, eyes round with fear. “How did they find us?”

Rig didn't have time for chatter. He craned his neck, peering between the sharpened tips of the palisade. He couldn't see much through the trees, but if they were in bow range, they were in ballistae range. Over his shoulder, he cried, “
Catapult, long, go!
”

A rattle of wood and a
whoosh
. A slab of stone sailed over the walls. There was a long breath of silence, followed by the crash of branches in the distance. No screams. Cursing, Rig started to look between the stakes again, but the enemy's answer was already upon them: Another flaming volley slammed into the fort. Arrows studded the palisade, the towers, the roof of the barracks. The catapults took a heavy barrage, but the Kingswords were ready, dousing them with pails of water and snapping off the shafts to keep the mechanism free. Infantrymen jumped down from the wall walk to smother the bourgeoning flames on the roof, and archers poured buckets from the towers. At the well, half a dozen Onnani soldiers took turns at the crank, keeping the water flowing.

“
Catapult, medium range!
”
Rig uttered a silent prayer as darkness passed over him, sudden and swift, like the shadow of a hawk. Then he heard the screaming, and he knew the gods had answered.
“There it is! Let them all go!”

Now that they could be sure of not wasting precious ammunition, the Kingswords held nothing back; three arms snapped to in rapid succession, flinging boulders the size of sheep. More screaming floated up from the trees. From the ramparts too, as Kingswords slumped over the parapet or tumbled from the wall walk, feathered with arrows. Manageable losses for now, but they wouldn't be able to hold out for long. A wooden fort was no great citadel, and it was especially vulnerable to flame. Already, a tendril of smoke threaded its way through the southwest tower.

Rig decided it was time to answer fire with fire.
“Short range! Light them up!”

He wondered if the advancing Oridians could smell the pitch. He hoped so. He hoped they smelled it, saw it smeared on the bark of the trees, so that when the flaming missiles started raining down, they'd know exactly what came next.

It was almost beautiful, the way the woods took flame in a perfect arc. They might have been able to set the fire without the aid of pitch, but it was springtime, and conditions were wet; Rig hadn't been willing to chance it. He'd had fifty men working to the predawn hours to get it done. They'd painted the briar patch as well, the thicket of sharpened logs lying in wait at the bottom of the trench ringing the fort. Rig would light them up too, if it came to that.

For now, they'd rely on arrows and catapults, pelting the enemy ranks while Sadik's army tried to find a way past the flaming perimeter. It wouldn't save the besieged defenders, not in itself, but it would buy them time. And time was what Rig needed, time for Morris to move his men into position.

Drawing a long, steadying breath, Rig nocked an arrow to his bloodbow, took aim between the stakes, and fired.

*   *   *

Morris lifted the
visor of his helmet and spat in the mud. An old habit, going back to his earliest days of King's Service.
More than twenty years ago now
, he realised with a flicker of
surprise. Twenty years of spitting in the dirt and bracing for a fight. He couldn't even remember how it started, but it didn't matter; he wouldn't dream of going into battle without it. It was as much a part of his ritual as the war paint on his horse, and a soldier knew better than to muck about with ritual.

He twisted in his saddle to look behind him, satisfying himself one last time that the men were ready. Four thousand of them. No great host, but if the gods were kind, it might just be enough. Not that Morris expected kindness. Riggard Black had pressed his luck too far and too often; no man could get away with that for long. Especially not with a plan like this. Too clever by half, with too many pieces in play. For it to work, they needed the spy to behave just so, and the Resistance too. Needed Sadik to take the bait. The fort was a tempting target, to be sure; Morris had no doubt the Warlord would jump at the chance to take it, and the gods knew he had more than enough men to get it done. He could attack the fort, fend off the Resistance at the grain silos, and still have a sizeable force sitting idle on the Andithyrian side of the river. That was just what the Kingswords were counting on. But all it would take was one enemy scout to blow Morris's position, and that would be the end of them. Their surprise attack would be thwarted, the fort would fall, flags down and good night.

No sense crying about it now.
Either it would work, or it wouldn't. And if it didn't, he wouldn't live long enough to mind.

“Commander.” Rollin pointed a gauntleted finger at the sky. “Smoke. It's time.”

Morris slammed his visor back down. “Let's do the king proud, then. This might be our last chance.”

He urged his horse to a trot. Behind him, the infantry marched double time, jogging through the trees as quietly as four thousand armour-clad men can manage. They had a lot of distance to cover, and they had better do it fast. The fort couldn't hold out long against an all-out assault. If Morris didn't engage the enemy's rear soon, the commander general's forces would be overwhelmed.

He tried not to think about it. That wasn't his job. He had his orders, and he'd follow them.

They'd gone less than half a mile when it all went wrong.

“
Shit!
Did you see that?” Rollin drew his blade.

“What?”

“Enemy scout! Bloody vermin is on horseback too!”

A blur of movement up ahead, the rustle of undergrowth. Morris spat out an oath. “Archers!”

Arrows whistled through the air. They'd got their shafts off quickly, he was proud of them, but it wasn't good enough. The scout had vanished into the trees.

“Rollin!”

The younger man didn't need to be told; his horse was already springing forward. “Jarold! Searle! With me!”

The three knights thundered off in pursuit. But the enemy scout had a healthy head start, and a forest full of trees to lose himself in. On top of which, there was no telling if he was alone, or how far he had to go before he could signal the enemy . . .

Can't say I didn't warn you, General
, Morris thought, even as he spurred his own horse to a gallop.
Can't say I didn't know how this would end.

Flags down and good night.