Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(96)

After he finished off the leader, he’d expected the warriors to run. They didn’t. They simply stood. When approached with a weapon, they fought back to the bitter end. They screamed when cut, but they didn’t speak. They didn’t fear. They didn’t speak even when overpowered, and when the Iron Dogs managed to restrain one long enough to tie him up, he burst into flames from the inside, burning the four people holding him. It cost him a good deal of his power to heal the burns.

They’d had to kill every last mrog fighter, and Hugh had walked that line, making sure the kills happened. It wasn’t fighting. It was slow, methodic butchery. Some of his people couldn’t do it. They would kill something that was fighting back if the odds were even, but hitting another person over the head with a mace until you were sure his skull was mush while four of five of your friends jumped them was beyond them.

He spared his people from it as much as he could.

It took forever. And when they were done, he worked with the wounded, while the rest of his troops fought the fires. By the time they put the flames out, it was well past midnight. Nobody wanted to sleep in Aberdine tonight. It took another half an hour to arrange the survivors into a column, load the injured onto carts, and move out to Baile. He was dragging almost half a thousand extra people with him. Elara would just love that.

He wanted to go home and wash away the blood. It clung to him, seeping into his pores and coating his tongue, and he had to fight the urge to spit every few seconds to clear it out. He’d been through hard battles before, but it never felt that raw. The void was so loud tonight, Hugh could almost see it hovering over him.

The woods parted, the trees falling back, and Bucky carried him into the clearing. A full moon shone in the sky, spilling silvery gauzy light onto the grassy slopes. On the left Baile rose. He had expected it to be quiet and dark. Bright fires burned on the side towers. Someone had set out fey lanterns along the path leading to the gates, and their pale bluish glow fought back the night. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree.

A lone figure stood on the battlements, her dress bright white against the darkness. She’d waited for him.

He jerked himself back from that thought before he read too much into it.

A horn sounded in the castle, triumphant. The gates swung open. Bucky raised his head and pranced.

“What are you doing, you fool?” Hugh growled.

The stallion doubled down. They pranced to the gate. A huge cistern was set by the gate, with a shower rigged to it. The air smelled of fresh bread and roasted meat.

“Oh my god,” Stoyan groaned behind him.

They went through the gate. Long tables waited in the bailey, with a buffet line against the outer wall, the cooks waiting.

“I’m going to cry,” Bale announced from somewhere down the line. “Does anybody have a hankie?”

People ran up to take their horses. Hugh turned in the saddle. Elara was still on the battlements. They looked at each other for a long moment. Then June came to take Bucky’s reins and Hugh dismounted.





Hugh stepped out of the shower, toweled dry, pulled on a pair of pants, and dropped into the chair by his desk. He’d stayed in the bailey long enough to make sure everyone would be settled, but it was quickly clear he wasn’t needed, so he’d climbed the stairs to his bedroom, took off his armor, cleaned it, then went into the shower.

He’d stood there for a good quarter of an hour, letting hot water run over his face. Alas, he couldn’t stay in the shower forever. Tomorrow he would need to review their losses. Three of his Iron Dogs had died. Twenty-one of the villagers. Twenty-four was better than two thousand, but math didn’t make the weight of the dead any lighter.

His whole body ached, but his brain was awake.

He’d made a blood ward and used a blood weapon. How? The purge hadn’t failed. He couldn’t feel Roland. He shouldn’t have been able to do it, but he did. And he could do it again. He stared at the cut on his arm. He could feel the magic humming in his blood. That was one hell of a mystery.

He needed sleep, but he knew the moment he closed his eyes, he would see fire and blood and death. If he managed to fall asleep, he would dream tonight. It was inevitable. He would relive the battle. It would cycle through his head until the morning. The void gnawed at him, taking long bites with its sharp teeth, and the void was never satiated.

Tattered memories slid across his mind, death groans, blood spray, the screech of a sword forcing its way through metal into the flesh underneath… Right now Roland would be reaching through the distance for reassurance and absolution. The voice of reason, the parental voice of God, who would tell him he had done what was necessary and what he had done was just and right and would make everything better.

He had lost the soothing certainty of Roland’s connection, but he’d traded it for a grim clarity. He had done what was necessary. It was bloody and it tore him up, but he had done it, not because Roland deemed it right, but because Hugh himself decided it was right.

The fight still simmered under his skin, a hot spattering mix of adrenaline, bloodlust, and sheer endurance.

Hugh glanced up and saw her through the open door of his bedroom. She wore white and she was walking toward him.

Elara stopped in the doorway. She was holding a thick envelope in her hands.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“That’s for later.”