Embers (24 page)

She could not imagine why not. He would have to, out of the most basic duty to his kinsman on an uncertain throne.

Or Goadel would kill him.

"
Why did you have to come here
?" The words were one long hiss of pain. She scarce knew who she was speaking of, Brand or her overweening father. Or her crazed half brother. But she knew the answer: duty, twisted or pure. It was the wellspring of men's lives. Her father thought he knew better than Nechtan what suited Pictland. Cunan would die a thousand deaths to fulfil his father's wishes. Brand would not let Goadel go free to wreak rebellion.

She understood now. Brand's love was for Northumbria, beyond even the strength of kin ties to Cenred. Beyond anything she could give.

She crept forward so that she could see.

He had to keep moving,
otherwise the damage to his ribs would seize up and he would be no use if it came back to fighting.

Goadel yelled and spat foam.

When it came back to fighting. Brand paced, tossing the hilt of his sword and catching it so that he could keep his arms moving. The sight of the blade sparking sunlight irritated all hell out of Goadel.

"I will not loose the prisoner until I reach the coast—"

Somewhere behind him he could hear Cunan reeling off curses in Pictish. He wished one of his men would have the sense to belt him over the head. He could not believe anything quite so ham-fisted had happened. He should have left Cunan to Goadel, not dragged him away and got his ribs knocked out in the process.

"…the coast…" bellowed Goadel. "Ireland.

Brand spared one glance for the prisoner staked out on the ground. Duty dictated he should be left to the consequences of treason.

"No," he yelled in turn and tried not to think how much his refusal might have to do with the unhealed wounds of what had been done to his brother by Goadel's kin.

Or to do with Alina.

He could not let his mind focus on Alina. The thought of her would take all that he had.

The prisoner stifled a groan. He could not imagine why, after the life she had lived, Alina would still care about her criminally arrogant father. But that she did was indisputable. Just as she cared for the other Pictish idiot, Cunan.

He transferred his gaze to the brother of the man he had killed.

"What I propose…" screamed Goadel. Something moved behind him. There was a small scuffle and a bitten-off curse. Someone had clouted Cunan after all? He risked a glance over his shoulder, swallowing the curse that rose to his own lips because of the jarring pain in his side.

"I have come for my father," said the Lady Alina.

The curse escaped. He could not believe she was real. Duda and the three king's men should have taken death rather than allowed this.

The princess of the Picts stared at them. Behind her a bloodied remnant crawled its way up off the ground. It appeared to have a broken nose. The princess rubbed her elbow as though it might have bruises.

"Take her away." They were the only words he could get out of his mouth. As a bellow, it was louder than Goadel's. "Now." There must be some of his men who would not be outfought by a woman.

"No. Do not do that" The voice, suddenly smooth, was Goadel's. The white heat in Brand's blood seemed to freeze. "I said, leave the lady be."

At a sign from Goadel, a small sound of shock issued from his helpless prisoner on the ground and was just as abruptly cut off. Brand saw how it happened. Bile rose in his throat and he knew the heat of the fury inside him was not extinguished, it was just held, under a thin ice-crust of frozen coldness, waiting its target.

Some things were not permitted. People should know that

"I think the Lord Maol would like to hear his daughter's offer," said Goadel.

Brand quietened his own men with a gesture, hoping the prisoner on the ground would have enough sense to keep silent this time, because there was nothing that could be done. Yet

He could see the small deadly glimmer of the knife held above the prisoner. So could Alina. Her face was chalk-white, her eyes twin wells of the pain he had never wanted to see in them again. He kept near her in his restless pacing, knowing what she would feel driven to say. Knowing that with those words, the choices, precious few at best would narrow down into one.

"I will go with you instead," said Alina to the brother of the man she had been betrothed to. "It is what you wished, if you remember. Would that not be a more…agreeable solution?"

Goadel's laughter made her hands clench. But she did not back down. Just stared at him.

"Do you believe I am still so much enamoured of your charms?" Goadel's gaze lingered on her with the kind of look that must cut straight through one with her fears. Brand's hand tightened on the sword hilt. But the ice stopped him. It was deadly, as deadly as what lay beneath.

Goadel spat.

"Wait—" It was the infernal prisoner's voice, wire thin, but everyone heard it. Behind him Brand heard Cunan surge to his feet.

He knew what would be said. It was both suicidal and held more selflessness than he had thought Maol capable of. The pinned body twisted, the mouth formed the words that would damn Alina. "She is not as you think. She is—"

"Worth less as a hostage than Maol would be." He yelled it. Before the words
a bastard
, true or not, could hit the air. Because if Goadel thought his dead brother Hun had been offered tainted goods he would kill Maol outright. The man should have calculated that. He stepped straight in front of Alina.

"But that is hardly going to matter to you, is it, Goadel, because I will not let either of the Picts go. And besides," he said, not even looking at the knife suspended over Maol, not even looking at Alina. "There is something else that you want more, is there not? Vengeance."

The word obliterated every other thought shifting through Goadel's eyes, as he had known it would. He saw all the thwarted fury that must twist through the blackness of that greedy soul begin to burn.

He stopped, close enough, taunting, the sword held with deceptive looseness in his hand.

"Would you like to know what I did to your brother Hun before I killed him? Would you like to know what he said? How I could force him to plead like a frightened child? How I could make him crawl and beg for mercy I would not give? Go on begging—"

The black fury ignited. The only recognizable word in the stream of abuse was
liar
, which was unfortunately true because Hun's death had been instant, a matter of defence as much as vengeance. But at least he had driven Goadel beyond reason. He swung the sword.

"
No
..." It was Alina's voice. The shocking desperation in it made him break the self-imposed rule and look at her. Turn his head. The change in the air warned him more than Duda's immediate shout. He twisted, forgetting about the pain in his side. Goadel's blade missed. He jumped back through the blackening mist, avoided the slashing backhand follow-through aimed at the knee by instinct.

He swatted his sword, flat-bladed, at Goadel as his body came back round in one fiercely balanced arc.

The blade missed Goadel's face by inches, striking his shoulder, deflected by the mail, slashing sparks. But it was not a blow meant to maim. It was an insult. Goadel screamed under the weight of the men holding him back.

Brand stood still while everyone got over the shock and rearranged themselves. His gaze sought Alina.

She was still struggling against Duda, who was trying to hold her back without using too much of the kind of weasel strength that killed people. She looked almost as wild as she had with Eadric.

Could she not understand what he was doing? That he was not going to abandon her or her father?

His own men closed round him as Goadel screamed a string of curses that ended in the words he wanted to hear.

"I will kill you."

"Then try it." His voice overrode everything. He flung off Eadric's restraining hand, striding forward into the clear space between the opposing sides. So that all could see him. So that all could hear.

"Do you listen, Goadel? My life or yours. The winner walks free. With whatever he wants to take with him, Pict or Northumbrian, man or woman, Cenred's retainers or yours. Those are the terms. My word."

The men yelled, on both sides, because it was the only way out without starting an indiscriminate bloodbath. They pressed back, clearing the space for the fight Somewhere beside him, Eadric was holding his shield strap. The blackness in front of his eyes held for a moment, with a sensation of numbing cold, the way it had happened after the arrow attack.

But this time he recognized it

It was like drowning.

He forced the memory back. Controlled it Controlled everything. He did not look at Alina, but turned his face towards the sun, so that the bright light almost blinded him. The blackness faded like mist and he moved his shoulders, his back, forcing life into muscles tightening inexorably from the last fight. The weight of the chain mail dragged at aching flesh.

He glanced across at Goadel being manhandled into some semblance of order by his companions. Goadel's eyes held death. It was in the air, like a dancing shadow.

He forced his concentration back to what had to be done. He did not want to think of fate pricking the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Duda, you ham-fisted lackwit, look at me.

He saw the shaggy head turn, as though in response to the unspoken thought. One glance told him that Alina, standing next to Duda, was totally still. He turned his gaze away from her. He could not look on so much as the dark fall of her half-hidden hair.

He glanced at Duda. Duda shuffled his feet.

Just explain it to her, you fool. Tell her that whatever the outcome of this, even if I die, her father's men will not let Goadel take her. They will not be bound by my word.

He could see Duda bend his head to speak softly. He knew that Alina watched him across the space that separated them from each other. He could sense her nearness, the tightly held stillness of her. He could sense her grief.

The madness he felt for her made him look at her eyes, as though he could convey across a distance of ten paces the power of the living pledge in his heart. Her night-deep gaze held his and then he could feel it slipping away.

Duda spoke to her, shaking her arm. She looked at her father, at Cunan.

It was not ten paces of Northumbrian soil that separated him from her. It was a whole country. It was grief and loss and blood and the inescapable ties of other loyalties and other cares.

Insuperable.

He had known that.

He took the shield off Eadric. Light spiralled off the painted sun wheel in Cenred's white and red colours. He set his hand to the well-worn iron grip, adjusted the leather strap. The weight of the shield settled over his forearm, the linden-wood panels strengthened with curving iron bands, the rim bound with hardened leather fastened with iron nails. Familiar as a second skin.

The sword was eager in his hand. Sunlight reflected off the rune-blade a thousand times more brightly than from the shield. The blade moved in his grip, as though its will merged with his. That was how it always began.

The dangerous exhilaration of the battle rush took his body, obliterating the pain. For now. But the pain was still there. It would break through the consuming fires later, and if it did, that would be Goadel's opportunity.

It was an opportunity that should not be granted.

This moment would be stronger. His blood surged. The power of that was something that should be controlled, always, for the future's sake. But not this time.

His future did not exist.

Only Alina's.

He let the wildness that was both his strength and his bane take his mind.

"He cannot mean to do it. He cannot. We have to stop him."

Alina's feet paced the green earth, flattening grass, moss, the last of summer's flowers. The small circles of her steps dizzied her.

"If you know how anyone can stop Brand from what he wants to do, I would be interested to learn," said Duda. Then, and more urgently, "If you are going to swoon, save it for later. You do not have time now."

Duda's voice seemed to come from a vast distance, even though he was standing next to her. She felt something catch her arm. The feral stiffness of her fingers fastened on what might have been a bony wrist under all the coverings.

"I am not… I will not…" But she could not even get the word
swoon
out of the dryness of her mouth. Because if she said that, she might do it. Right there and then while there was not time.

"What have I been telling you about what will happen, eh? Repeat it to me. Wench!" The English word, offensive to her rank, scarce penetrated. Duda's claw-like hands shook at her arm. "Unless, of course, you want to make what he is doing worthless."

That got through. She blinked her eyes against the otherworldly tinge to the sunlight. The light was so fierce she did not understand how it could be so cold. She tried to shake off the grip of that coldness, to concentrate.

"What did I say?" demanded the creature attached to her arm.

"That whoever—"
whoever is killed
"—whichever way it goes, there will be confusion at the end, and that is when—"

Brand moved. Light caught a thousand woven silver rings, then shattered under his power. She had never imagined so much ferocity. Goadel staggered back. There was blood.

An inarticulate sound from Duda drew her attention. What she could see of his face was without colour.

"
You
cannot swoon," she snarled. "You have not got time." But her hand slid under the grubby rags where his arm might be. "It is all right. He hit Goadel. Duda?"

There was the sickening sound of rending wood. She looked back. Goadel's shield. Brand's weight behind it. Goadel staggered. Almost fell. Twisted aside. Caught his balance. The next blow almost cut through to his neck.

"Duda?"

She could not turn her head.

She heard curses, then, "Tell me the rest of your instructions." As though she were some bondswoman.