The Bloodforged (2 page)

“So much for the fierce fighters of Harram,” Rig said bitterly. “We'll be halfway through the afterlife before those cowards join the war.”

Alix didn't bother arguing. Aside from a westerner's natural suspicion of foreigners, Rig harboured a particular dislike for the Harrami, whose failure to control their mountain tribes left the Blacklands vulnerable to raids. He'd faced Harrami tribesmen in battle, and it had marked him. It had also taught him hit-and-run tactics and the rare art of true horse archery, both of which the Blackswords had put to good use in the first six months of the war. But Alix doubted he would see the positive side.

“What's with the shine?” Rig said, gesturing at Liam's dress armour.

Liam grimaced. “In honour of your esteemed selves. Most of the banner lords are arriving tonight.”

“Is there a banquet?” Rig asked, brightening.

“There is,” Liam replied with considerably less enthusiasm.

“Thank the Nine Virtues. I'm lucky if I get a bite of venison these days. The Imperial Road is a mess this time of year.”

“Looks like it,” Alix said, inclining her head at her brother's muddy boots. He'd left a trail of it across the polished stone floor. Arnot would not be pleased. “You'd better get cleaned up. You might even consider cutting your hair.”

Rig ran a careless hand through his coal-black locks. They were almost to his shoulders again, hanging in the same lazy waves as Alix's. “Do you think it'll annoy Highmount if I don't?”

“Definitely.”

“In that case, I think I'll leave it.”

Liam grinned. “A man after my own heart.”

Rudi padded over, having concluded his own sweep of the oratorium. He snuffled at Rig's boots, but otherwise gave him a pass. “Holy Scourge of Rahl!” Rig held out a callused hand for the wolfhound to sniff. “Is that
Rudi
? He's a monster!”

“Yes,” Liam said, “he is.”

“I can't believe how much he's grown! We could use a few like that at the front. Put some fear into those gods-cursed Oridian warhounds.” Rig gave the animal's flank a solid thump, setting Rudi's nub wagging.

“You want him? He's yours.” Liam started to reach for the wolfhound, but Rudi bared his teeth.

“All right,” Alix said, “out of here, all of you. I need to finish this and get back to Erik.”

“Come on, Rudi,” Rig said, “let's find something to eat.” The wolfhound trotted alongside him as happily as if Rig had reared him from a pup. Liam looked after them in disgust.

“Bye, Allie.” He dropped a kiss on Alix's cheek. “See you at the banquet.”

Alix shook her head ruefully. A banquet. In the middle of war. She understood the politics of it, but even so, it felt wrong somehow. Like a death feast. A final indulgence before the execution.

She raised her eyes to the stained-glass window, watching detachedly as the servants tried to repair the crack. She no longer saw the symbol of Ardin's passion. Instead, she saw the flames of war.

*   *   *

Erik White stood
at the window of his study, gazing out over the rose garden. A light glitter of snow dusted the burlap sacks covering the rosebushes, giving them a sombre cast.
Like a row
of tombstones
, he thought. An endless row, twisting back on itself and back again, an army of tombstones in tight, ordered ranks. Was that what the graves at the front looked like?

Don't be ridiculous.
They have no time to erect monuments to their dead.

Erik sighed, his breath fogging the glass. It was no good, giving himself over to grim thoughts like this. He knew it, but he could not seem to help himself. The longer the war dragged on, the less Erik could think about anything else. He was climbing the walls here in the palace, futile and frivolous, throwing banquets and convening council meetings while hundreds, thousands of his men died at the front. It was almost enough to make him long for the days when he commanded his own forces in the field. His kingdom had been torn in half then, its lands overrun by enemy forces, but at least Erik had not felt as though he were burrowed down, snug and safe, like a hedgehog waiting out the winter. At least then, he could face his enemy head on. If his kingdom was destined to be conquered, Erik would rather die on the point of a sword than be captured in the palace, forced to his knees in front of the Warlord. Thrown in the Red Tower, or worse, given his freedom in exchange for surrender.

Stop it. We are not conquered. Not yet.

“Your Majesty.”

Her voice was a welcome interruption. Erik turned.

“The oratorium is clear. There's a crack in one of the windows, but the servants assure me it's just ordinary wear and tear. It'll be repaired by tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Alix. And what of the banner lords? Have they begun arriving?”

She smiled. Erik knew what that meant, and he smiled too. “So he did come, then?” He had been told not to expect Riggard Black.

Closing the door to make sure they were alone, Alix strolled into the room and threw herself casually into a chair. “Apparently, he got a letter from Highmount.”

“Ah.” Erik pulled out his own chair. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. My first counsel is convinced this is the most critical decision we've had to make since the siege.”

Alix toyed with the pearl-handled seal knife on his desk. “Is it?” she asked quietly.

“I think perhaps it is,” he said, just as quietly. “But the truth is, I'm not sure it's really a choice at all. If our allies don't enter the war, and soon, it's over for us. We must do whatever it takes to see that they do.”

“And you and Highmount have an idea how to do that?” The barest hint of frost touched her voice. Few would have noticed it; Alix had grown better at concealing her thoughts these past months. Time at court did that to a person. But Erik spent at least twelve hours a day with this woman, and he could read her as easily as a favourite book. She was annoyed, and he thought he knew why.

“We've discussed it in detail, yes. And no, you were not present. That was deliberate, Alix.” Hardly likely to appease her, but he wanted her to understand. “I needed to discuss the options freely, without worrying about those whom it might affect.”

She gave him a wary look. “Meaning?”

“I see only one possible solution, and you're not going to like it.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Ominous.” He sighed again, rubbed his temples. “That is how we live our lives, is it not? Ominously?”

Her expression softened; she reached across the desk and took his hand. Instinctively, Erik's fingers tightened around hers.

“It won't last forever, Erik. It can't.”

For half a heartbeat, he let himself take comfort in her voice, in the warmth of her hand. Then he released her and sat back. “No, it can't. It must end. My duty is to make sure it ends well, no matter what. I hope I can count on your support tomorrow, even if you don't like what I have to say.”

The wary look returned. “In that case, maybe you'd better tell me now.”

“We will discuss it at length tomorrow, I promise. And I'm not asking you to agree with me blindly—just hear me out, without jumping to conclusions. If you still have concerns, you are free to air them, as always. I daresay you won't be alone.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “This proposal of yours—it's really that bad?”

“Bad? I sincerely hope not. Call it desperate, rather.”

She swallowed. “Are things really that . . . Are we desperate?”

His gaze moved back to the window, to the glitter of snow and the marching ranks of tombstones. “Yes, Alix, we are.”

“M
y lady?” Arnot poked his head in, a little warily. He'd grown accustomed to Alix's mood on days like this, and learned to tread lightly.

She nodded distractedly, her gaze raking the oratorium one last time. Though she had no reason to expect trouble, she knew better than to take anything for granted. She'd taken plenty of precautions last summer, on that fateful day when Erik and his brother had met in parley to decide the future of the crown, and it hadn't helped. Roswald Grey had still managed to smuggle his men inside. Erik had nearly been killed. Alix would never make a mistake like that again, not ever.

Having secured her leave, Arnot led a small army of servants into the room. Under his capable command, hearths and braziers were lit, flowers arranged, refreshments placed close at hand. The wood had been waxed, the floors polished. A new rib of lead had been added to the window bearing Ardin's flame. Silk cushions of green and black, brown and gold and grey were carefully positioned so that each banner lord might know where to sit, in a position commensurate with his prestige. Everything was ready.

Albern Highmount was the first to arrive, as always, to do his customary inspection of the preparations. “Your Highness,” he said, acknowledging her with a grave nod. The first counsel was the only person at court who referred to her that way—possibly because he knew how much it annoyed her. She had been born
Lady Alix
, appointed
captain of the royal guardsmen
. These
titles were her own, one a birthright, the other something earned.
Your Highness
, on the other hand, was something she'd acquired through association. The honorific belonged to Liam, not her. It didn't speak to who she was. Not really.

“I am pleased your brother was able to join us,” Highmount said.
I am pleased your brother saw fit to do his duty
, was what he meant.

“It's fortunate he found a window to do so, what with the
war
and all.”

“Wars are not fought with swords alone, Your Highness. Indeed, in many cases, they are not decided by swords at all.”

Alix treated herself to a brief, diverting vision of Highmount slipping on the freshly polished floor.

The first counsel concluded his inspection and departed, heading for his post at the main doors of the palace. Protocol demanded that he greet the banner lords personally. Alix was not sorry to see him go.

Godwin appeared at her side. “All clear, Captain?”

She nodded. “Let's do this.”

A moment later, the herald announced the first arrival. “Lord Raibert Green.”

A familiar figure appeared in the doorway. As bearer of the kingdom's oldest and most venerable banner, Green was first among his peers, and thus preceded them into any official gathering. One might expect such an august person to carry himself haughtily—but only if one had never met Raibert Green. He looked solemn as always, his thin face wise and world-weary, but when he spied Alix, a smile burst over him and set his gentle eyes sparkling. “My lady. It's good to see you.”

She embraced him as if he were a favourite uncle. “You're looking well.”

“As are you,” he said. “Married life agrees with you, I see.”

Alix started to reply, but the herald's voice cut her off. “Lady Rona Brown.”

The newest of the banner holders entered tentatively, glancing around as though not quite sure what to do with herself. This was only her second council since inheriting the banner. At nineteen years old, a knight for barely a year, she had yet to fully grow into her office. Alix had no doubt that she would, though, judging
by her attire. Rona had elected to wear ceremonial armour, a daring choice that would no doubt set Albern Highmount's teeth on edge. A rampant white wolf, smaller but otherwise identical to Liam's, adorned her breastplate, marking her an officer of that elite unit. Her only concession to her birthright was a brown satin cape over her left shoulder. To flout tradition barely six months after inheriting the Brown banner spoke volumes about her sense of independence.

It spoke of something else too, Alix judged. Wearing her White Wolf armour was a mark of Rona's loyalty to her commander. Loyalty, and perhaps something a little more. It wasn't the first time Alix had noticed this . . . devotion. Well, that was all right. After all, who could blame her? Liam was handsome, witty, and as talented a sword as any in the realm. Also, he was a prince. Banner lady or no, Rona Brown had every right to be smitten. So long as she kept her hands to herself.

“Lord Riggard Black.”

Rig wore armour too, but in his case, not even Highmount would have expected anything else. Like his predecessor, Arran Green, Rig was every inch a soldier. That meant he had a soldier's sense of solidarity, so when he spied Rona Brown hovering awkwardly near the door, he went over and clapped her shoulder. Rona smiled, relaxing a little.

Norvin Gold was next to arrive, looking even more ancient than the last time Alix had seen him. Thin hair drifted in wisps over his spotted scalp; angular cheekbones threw shadows down over gaunt cheeks. Even his doublet looked worn.
They have fallen on hard times
, Alix thought. They all had, and none more so than the final arrival.

“Lady Sirin Grey,” said the herald.

Alix and Raibert Green exchanged a look. Sirin was not the holder of the Grey banner; that honour belonged to her mother, Alithia. To send a lower-ranking member of the family to a council of this importance could be taken as a slight. The Greys were already disgraced, thanks to the treachery of Sirin's brother. It surprised Alix that Lady Grey would risk offending the crown barely six months after her son had plotted to wrest control of it.

“Perhaps Lady Grey is ill?” Alix ventured in an undertone.

Raibert Green shook his head. “I saw her only yesterday. She looked hale enough to me.”

Alix regarded him in surprise. It was none of her business, but as usual, she found it difficult to hold her tongue. “You had business with the Greys?”

The barest hint of a sigh passed Green's lips. “Lady Grey was so gracious as to offer me the hand of her daughter.”

Alix looked down at her boots for the handful of moments it took to master herself. “That's . . . unexpected.”

Green shrugged. “Lady Sirin is the daughter of a Banner House. All things being equal, she should have been married long ago.”

All things being equal, she should have married Erik.
Alix couldn't bring herself to be sorry that hadn't happened, though she did pity Sirin her circumstances. Being in love with her fiancé's brother was bad enough; seeing her lover beheaded for treason was a misfortune she surely did not deserve. Still, to suppose that she could still be worthy of a Green, the most illustrious of the Banner Houses . . . It was wildly ambitious. Politically, it would have made far more sense to offer her to Rig. Not that Alix would have welcomed that; having Sirin Grey as a sister-in-law would have been more than a little awkward.

“Lady Sirin is still young, and very beautiful,” Green said. “And I do not think it fair to hold her responsible for her brother's sins, or the Raven's. The fortunes of her house are not her doing, and their standing will recover in time.”

“But . . .”

He shrugged again. “But she doesn't love me. We barely know each other. We both need heirs, it's true, but I am not so desperate as to enter a marriage with someone in mourning. It's been barely six months since Prince Tomald was executed. I know what it's like to lose the one you love. Six months is not nearly enough time, Alix.”

Sirin Grey acknowledged the others with a nod and moved to find her seat. She carried herself with grave dignity, gaze straight ahead, acutely aware that every pair of eyes followed her across the hall. Silent steps moved her pale silk dress in dreamlike wisps, as if she were a ghost. In a way, Alix supposed, she was; a ghost of the influential figure she'd once been.

“That's everyone,” Alix said as a few minor lords and
ladies made their way in. Now that all the Banner Houses were represented, the rest of the council members were permitted to enter. That left only His Majesty the king and His Highness the prince.

She found them in the king's study. Liam perched on the edge of Erik's desk, looking casually beautiful in his dress armour. Erik sat with his head bowed, absently stroking Rudi's fur, his gaze a million miles away. The wolfhound, for his part, had his eyes closed in bliss. Erik was his favourite—to Liam's vast annoyance.

The sound of Alix's footfalls drew the king's head up. “Are we ready?” He looked nearly as tense as he had the day of the parley with the Raven, the day the stone walls of the oratorium had acquired an upward-slanting scar.

“Ready,” she said. “The last of the lords and ladies are just filing in now.”

Erik rose, revealing a white doublet with sky-blue embroidery that brought out the bright, clear topaz of his eyes. “To work, then,” he said, and headed for the door.

Liam strode at his side, Alix trailing just behind. Even after all these months, it felt strange to follow in Liam's footsteps. For so long, he'd been the one to follow her, tracking her footfalls through the brush as she led them on a scouting mission. Figuratively, too, he'd always taken Alix's lead—
like a puppy
, Arran Green had once said. But that was when he'd been merely Liam, a no-name commoner, a scout like any other. Things were different now.
So different
, Alix thought.

The high lords and ladies of the realm stood arrayed behind their designated seats, waiting. Erik acknowledged them all with a crisp nod, gestured for them to sit. Alix alone remained on her feet, hovering just over Erik's right shoulder, close enough to rest a hand on it if she'd wanted to. No doubt many in the room would consider that overkill. Insulting, even, implying as it did that the king's bodyguard didn't really trust them. Alix didn't give a flaming flea what they thought. This was war.

Erik's solemn gaze took them in one by one. “My lords. Thank you for gathering on such short notice. Some of you have travelled great distances to be here, and the roads are difficult. The crown salutes your loyalty and service. Be assured that I do not presume upon them lightly. The matters we discuss today
are of vital strategic importance to the realm.” He turned to Rig, who sat second from his left, with only Lord Green between them. Barely a year ago, such a position of honour would have been unthinkable, but the Blacks had come a long way since then. “Lord Black, perhaps we might begin with an update from the front.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Rig raised his voice a little above his customary rumble. “The winter has been difficult, as predicted. Things have been relatively quiet on the battlefield, but our supply lines have grown stretched. Aside from the usual difficulties of the season, our stores are at an all-time low following last year's lost harvests. On top of which, banditry is rife on the Imperial Road, and worsening every day. We've been obliged to double the escort on our supply wagons, diverting men who are sorely needed at the front.”

“With your permission, General,” said Rona Brown. When Rig nodded, she continued. “The problem is even worse in the Brownlands. Highwaymen roam the farmsteads and villages, looting and preying on the people. It's been especially hard on the womenfolk. They sometimes . . . That is, there have been several cases . . .” She swallowed, dropping her gaze.

“Yes,” Rig said, his eyes hard with fury. “That too.”

“Every sword we can muster goes straight to the front,” Rona said. “I have none to spare on law and order.”

“In the Greenlands too,” Raibert Green added. “Nearly a dozen untimely deaths reported this winter, and half as many disappearances. And those are just the incidents that have reached my ears. The real numbers are almost certainly higher.”

Rig's hands balled into fists on the table, forearms twitching into cords of stiff muscle. He would consider all this a personal failure, Alix knew. She wanted to say something, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but now was not the time.

“Please continue, Lord Black,” Erik said.

With a visible effort, Rig relaxed his hands. “The winter has been hard on the enemy too. Their supply lines are secure, thanks to their foothold in Andithyri, but disease has torn through their ranks. Some sort of cough, I'm told. Probably the same one our men had last winter. Meanwhile, their reinforcements have slowed.”

“Perhaps I might interject here,” said Albern Highmount. Unlike Rona Brown, he didn't wait for Rig's leave. “My spies report that the Oridian populace grows weary of war. They have been at it for much longer, of course, and with the Priest slain, their religious fervour has dimmed. They begin to question the purpose of unending expansion.”

“Even if the people are weary,” Rig said, “their soldiers are not. And neither is the Warlord. He'll not stand down, not unless Varad forces him to.”

“That he is unlikely to do,” Raibert Green said. “Varad may be King, but with the Priest gone, his position is weakened. And it would not do for the two remaining Trions to appear divided. The King will support the Warlord for the time being, if I am any judge.”

“Agreed,” Erik said, “but even so, the news is welcome. The people are the backbone of any war effort. It may take time, but if the Oridian public opposes the war, it will sap their strength.”

“In the meantime,” Rig said, “we have thirty thousand soldiers on our doorstep, and only half that number to defend it. We've been plodding through the winter, but spring will set things galloping again.”

“How long do you estimate you can hold the enemy at the border?” Highmount asked.

“The raiding will begin straightaway, I expect. As for a full-scale invasion, it's impossible to say, but I'd measure it in weeks rather than months. For the moment, the river is doing most of the work; otherwise, the Warlord would be halfway to Erroman by now. We've managed to destroy most of the bridges, but there are still a couple of fords the enemy could cross. Needless to say, my men are piled up at those points.”