The Pagan Night

by Tim Akers

  “Yes, my lord,” the knight said, then hurried away. Malcolm called after him.

  “Where is my son?”

  “None know, my lord!” the man yelled as he disappeared into the shadows. Malcolm sighed and blinked into the darkness. There was a steady stream of torches pouring down from the ridgeline and into the forest, moving fast and bounding, as though on horses. There were voices all around, and the clash of steel. He looked down at the dead man at his feet, put a toe to the corpse’s shoulder and turned it over. Suhdrin colors on his chest, and fair hair on his scalp. Good. He hadn’t mistakenly killed one of his own in a waking delirium.

  This moment of peace was interrupted by a push in the darkness. The trees around Malcolm were suddenly crowded with knights and men-at-arms, all in various states of undress, trying to escape the onslaught. Horses appeared among them, the riders striking down at the defenders, spraying blood and fear. Malcolm was moved back, stumbling as the fleeing Tenerrans pushed away from their attackers.

  “Enough!” Malcolm yelled over the fray. “Men of Houndhallow, to me! Rally! Rally!”

  The footmen around Malcolm paused, surprised to find themselves in the presence of their lord. He shouldered them aside and rushed the closest rider. The man was hewing blindly through the press with a horseman’s axe, heedless of how far ahead of his fellows he had gotten. Malcolm slid to the man’s side, avoiding the dashing hooves of his mount, waiting until the rider turned toward him.

  The man looked down at the naked, scarred, wild-eyed attacker at his boot, and sneered.

  He raised his axe.

  Malcolm swung twice, fast and long, the bare tip of his blade dancing across the long muscles of the rider’s chest, just beneath the armpit. The Suhdrin’s right arm went limp, and the axe with it, the weight too much and the fury of battle too great. The axe cartwheeled to the ground. The rider drew a short blade with his other hand and tried to stab Malcolm in the face, but he danced back, forward, and back again, hammering the forte of his sword into the man’s gut. The rider fell, and then the horse turned back the way it had come, galloping a path through the attackers.

  The retreating men of Tener rallied, rushing around Malcolm to take the battle forward. Malcolm followed, screaming and naked and blade-hungry, disappearing into the night with his sword held high and the blood of his foes in his mouth.

  * * *

  The battle continued until morning, and by the time Strife’s warmth found the shadows of the forest, there were many dead among the trees. Half of Malcolm’s host lay silent, most cut down before they could don armor or defend themselves, lost in those first few chaotic moments of the attack.

  Three times their number of Suhdrin had fallen, half of them the riders who had charged into the woods, the rest archers and spearmen who had followed their brothers into battle, only to be trampled during the rout. The last moments of the fight had been grim, exhausted men and women battling until the breath left their lungs and the strength was gone from their bodies. It reminded Ian of the lesser melee at Greenhall, when he had watched Martin Roard fight in mud and dishonor, seeking some glimpse of what true battle would feel like.

  The column had been a scouting patrol, riding as quietly as they were able among the foothills south of the Tallow, fortunate enough to stumble on the Tenerran campsite in the darkness, and unfortunate enough to find battle. Those who had not died in the darkness were fleeing east, to find the godsroad and reinforcements.

  Malcolm stood on the ridge, watching the survivors beat hooves through the whirling grass. Ian came to stand beside him.

  “Father,” Ian said, “I’ve brought your robes.”

  “Robes?” Malcolm asked. He looked down. He was still naked, the scraggly hair on his chest and loins flaked with blood, his limbs smeared with mud and sweat. He was shivering in the first light of dawn. “Yes, thank you.”

  Ian helped his father cover himself, then stared down at the retreating column.

  “A good fight,” the younger Blakley said.

  Malcolm snorted with contempt.

  “A bloody mess. Half of those who are dead never woke up, and none of them had time to prepare for the fight to come.” He shrugged deeper into the robes, clenching them to his chest, hugging the dented sword to his ribs. “And those riders will tell tales of mad, naked, bloody pagans howling through the woods.”

  “Do you think any of them knew they faced the lord of Houndhallow?” Ian asked with a smirk.

  “Gods grant that they don’t,” Malcolm snapped. “Gather the men. Get them on their horses. Array the dead and bless them to Cinder, then give them to the forest. We have no time for burial rites.”

  “Father…”

  “I will mourn their names at the Fen Gate, and raise tribute to them in Houndhallow,” Malcolm said irritably. “The gods will see them to the quiet. But we must ride!”

  “We may not have the opportunity,” Ian said. He pointed down the narrow defile between rolling hillocks. A host was riding toward them from the east. Three abreast and winding over the hills like a river, the riders sounded horns as they approached.

  “Well, gods be good.” Malcolm squinted in their direction, letting the robe fall from his shoulder. “At least we have friends to guide us.”

  Ian peered at the column of riders. At their fore, a banner slipped free of its silk, and then caught its colors in the wind. It was the red and black of the Fen Gate.

  The iron fist of Adair.

  20

  GWEN RODE SWIFTLY down the hill, gathering the view. A tangle of men on foot paced along a ridge just north of the woods. To the west, there was a column of riders in full retreat, their line ragged and panicked. They flew no colors, but Gwen knew Suhdrin scouts when she saw them, with their high saddles and meaningless horns. They thought of themselves as junior knights, and often raced into battles that would be better harried, charging shield walls when their training and equipment suited a softer approach.

  The men on the ridge were another matter. They looked a loose group, in varying uniform and, though armed, seemed to lack the cohesion of a military force.

  When her scouts had brought word of torches and war along the border, Gwen expected to find a Tenerran column in full regalia, perhaps marching west from Dunneswerry, or returning from action deeper in Suhdra. Now she worried that she had roused her banners and ridden south in support of a band of mercenaries, or worse.

  “Form a round and fly the banners,” Gwen called over her shoulder. “I will speak to their leader. Don’t hesitate to strike if you see trouble.”

  “I see trouble enough from here,” Sir Brennan said.

  “They look too ragged to be much threat,” Gwen answered.

  “Mayhap, but Acorn’s men found threat enough.”

  “Aye, well, who’s to account for Suhdrin fear?” Gwen laughed. “Stay your hand. If they saw fit to thrash some of Halverdt’s men, then I’ll see fit to speak with them.”

  “They have colors, my lady,” Sir Baxter said from her flank.

  “Oh?”

  “There. The tall one on the hill. I’ll swear he’s wearing the hound.”

  Gwen narrowed her vision. Sure enough, a few of the men milling about the ridge were wearing black and white, with the Blakley hound on their chests or emblazoned on their shields.

  “Perhaps they’ll have word of their lord,” Gwen said. “I’m sure the duchess of Houndhallow would be happy of that.”

  “Long as the news is good,” Brennan answered. “If they come from Greenhall, perhaps Sir Merret is among them.”

  “Gods grant it,” Gwen said. She hadn’t liked sending Sir Merret to Halverdt’s court, but her father insisted that the duke of Houndhallow and the other Tenerran knights celebrating the Allfire should be warned of what trouble might be coming their way.

  In silence they covered the short distance between hills. Her men rounded behind her, forming a circle of swirling cavalry lines, bright with spear and banner. Gwen took Sir Brenn
an with her, and rode up the ridge to meet the loose crowd of swordsmen who waited. They looked rough, blood spattered and tired to a man. There were women among their number, as well, all looking as if they had spent the night slaughtering cattle. They watched her indifferently.

  “Who among you can speak for this host?” she asked as she rode up.

  “I’m as good as any, and better than most,” said a gaunt man in Blakley colors. He was dressed in loose linen, worn and sweaty, though the tabard belted to his chest looked fresh. He had a patchy beard, though it was still soft and thin. Gwen smiled.

  “A squire?” she said. “Surely there is a knight among your number who would be better able.” She looked at the dozen or so swordsmen standing in the young man’s wake. A few of them wore bits of armor, and at least one—a woman—was dressed for war.

  “The mud hides my honor, but such is the way with war. I am Lord Ian Blakley, son of Malcolm, heir to the Hunter’s throne and the hallow of the hound.” Ian stood straight. “And you?”

  “Gwendolyn Adair. I wouldn’t have recognized you, Ian. Last we met, you were still putting arrows into haystacks. Have you trained to the lance, now?”

  “He’s done more than that,” the woman said. She came to stand beside Ian. “Faced a gheist at Greenhall, and entered the lists against Chev Bourdais.”

  “And lived? Well, that’s something to report. You lead this host?”

  Another came up the hill, this one without color or armor or fear. Gwen almost didn’t recognize him, until he smiled.

  “My lady,” Sir Merret said. “You should be kind to the boy. I would be dead without his help.”

  “Everyone can stop calling me ‘the boy,’ please,” Ian said tightly.

  “Yes, yes…” Merret waved him aside and went to stand beside Gwen’s horse. “I have a lot to report, but you’ve probably guessed at the worst of it.”

  “This is all that remains of the Tenerran host from Greenhall?” she asked.

  “This, and an equal number dead in the trees below.”

  “And the duke is not with you?”

  “My father is alive and well, and spent this night in better service to his land than you, I suspect,” Ian said. “He is below, seeing to the wounded and preparing to ride.”

  “Then you have horses. Excellent, because we have few to spare. Those scouts of Greenhall will find support long before we reach the Fen.” She nudged her horse closer to Ian. “I was hoping that you would be able to ride in strength from Greenhall. We are few along the border.”

  “Halverdt took most of our gear and an equal measure of our strength before we were free of his walls,” Ian said. He wavered on his feet, looking for a moment as though he would fall from fatigue, then put a hand on Gwen’s boot to steady himself. She ignored it. “It has been a difficult ride. My father will be thankful you have come.”

  “We came to help, and to get help. There is much to discuss. Come.” She offered him a hand. He took it, and Gwen pulled him up to the saddle, to sit in front of her. He stank of the road and battle, but it wasn’t a terrible stink. “Let’s find your father. We must reach the Tallow before night. Sooner, if we can.”

  “He’s below. Hopefully dressed by now.”

  “Dressed? Surely…”

  “They came at us in the night. Father was killing them before he found his boots, much less his dignity.”

  “Well, then,” Gwen said with a smirk, “we will ride slowly, and hope the duke has found at least one of those before we arrive.”

  * * *

  They crossed the Tallow in strength, the ragged remnants of Malcolm’s force happy to be on Tenerran ground once again, despite the loss and tragedy that had brought them here. Malcolm Blakley paused at the river’s shore to bathe, joined by a dozen men and women from his train, all of them lame from fatigue. They turned the churning water to rust.

  When he emerged, though, it was as though Malcolm had left a great weight of worry in the river’s current. The war had come, and there was nothing he could do to avoid it. So he would be ready.

  “You say my wife has ridden to the Fen Gate?” Malcolm asked as he donned fresh robes.

  “Aye, with some number of riders. When she heard of the troubles in Greenhall, she sent word to the northern lords and their bannermen,” Gwen said. “Your wife is preparing for war.”

  “She should not have come to the Fen Gate,” he muttered. “She should be guarding Houndhallow.” He mounted without armor and signaled the advance. They crossed the river in column.

  “Will you leave us to guard the border alone, then, and return to Houndhallow?” Gwen asked. She had to yell as they splashed across the water.

  “We have a border with Halverdt, as well, you know,” Ian said. “If he decides to cross the Tallow, there’s nothing to keep him from riding there instead of here.”

  “We will not abandon our alliance with you,” Malcolm said crossly. “Blakley and Adair have stood against Suhdrin aggression since shadows first stretched over Tenumbra. This time will be no different. It just would have eased my mind to have the duchess behind our walls. That is all.”

  “The defense of Houndhallow will be seen to,” Gwen said. “If we defeat Halverdt here, however, there will be no need.”

  “You speak of defeating him here, and making a stand on the border,” Malcolm said, “but where will we stand? A skirmish with scouts does not make or break a war, my lady. I know you are huntress of your house, but battle is not joined in the hunter’s way, by creeping through the woods until you find your prey. There must be open ground, and a meeting of armies. We may have no army to meet: for all we know, Halverdt has contented himself with throwing us out of his keep, and will not stir from his walls.”

  “Oh, I assure you he has stirred,” Gwen said. “As you shall see, if you follow me.”

  She refused to say anything more. Malcolm frowned, but he followed.

  * * *

  They proceeded east, until in time they reached the edge of a narrow lake, called White Lake. There was a ford at the point where the river entered the lake, and another on the other side, where the river Tallow again flowed out of the lake. A Tenerran army had made camp in Suhdrin land along the lake’s southern shore, and now spread out in a crescent. Their banners hung lazily in the air, but tents and wagons and temporary forges crowded the shores of the lake, and rank after rank of armed men waited. Gwen led them across the nearest ford to join the army.

  The plain to the south rose slowly to a gentle ridge anchored by a wooded hillock. Along the ridge and down the slope bristled the gathered armies of Suhdra. Among the bright banners of the houses of Suhdra, fully half of the spears arrayed against them flew the black and gray of the inquisition.

  The south had marched against them. The war was joined.

  “You’ve already crossed?” Malcolm asked in disbelief. “The armies of House Adair cannot decide to invade Suhdra on a whim! We’ll have a war, certainly, but if we’d stayed on Tenerran soil we would at least have had the advantage of land and heart. Any negotiation we undertake—”

  “Two things,” she replied, cutting him off, “before you get in over your head. First, any negotiation that we undertake will be from the victor’s chair, and not while begging for Suhdrin mercy.” She sat straight in the saddle and waved her hand to indicate the encampment. “And, perhaps most importantly, that is not an army of House Adair.”

  Malcolm turned again to view the army. A smaller congregation of Tenerran lords was gathered on the near bank, and there the banners rested. To his surprise, he saw the gray and black of the Feltower, the multi-green of Drownhal, both of them from Tener. But there was also a Suhdrin banner: the blue and white of House Jaerdin. Castian Jaerdin, duke of Redgarden, had ridden with him during the Reaver War, and often opposed Halverdt in the Suhdrin Circle of Lords. He was the only Suhdrin in the host. Malcolm was pleased to see him.

  “You would take commands from a Suhdrin lord?” Malcolm asked. “I grant you,
Castian is as fine a general as the south has raised, and a true friend, but it would suit better if Tenerran nobles asked for Tenerran blood.”

  “I agree,” she replied. “Which is why the central banner flies.”

  The banner at the center of the commander’s encampment was lazy, large and heavy, its edges frayed with golden tassel and the seals of a dozen campaigns. Then the wind rose, and the banner stirred. The Blakley hound, a black shadow against its white field, lifted into the air. Soon it was cracking like thunder in the breeze.

  Malcolm spurred his horse and charged down to the banner-hold. A line of spearmen formed to meet his charge, until someone recognized the riders and blew a horn, and they parted. He hammered toward the commander’s dais, from where the council would watch the coming battle. When he got close, Malcolm slid from his saddle and stumbled forward. There was a murmuring from the gathered lords. He ran toward the stairs.

  Standing at the front of the commander’s dais, sword at her hip and chain over her dress, was his wife, Sorcha Blakley. She looked down at the stumbling madman who had just appeared at the flank of her army and, when she recognized her husband, gave a little start. Then she rushed down the stairs and into his arms. The rings of her mail gave a shinging sound, like a handful of coins let slip to the floor.

  “It’s good to see you, husband,” she said when she had finally pulled away. With one hand she brushed a tear from his eye, putting it to her lips.

  “And you, my love,” Malcolm answered very quietly. “What brings you to the Fen?”

  “I came looking for my husband—and see? I found him.” She smiled sheepishly, an odd look on her face. “I brought you an army, dear.”

  “It’s good that you did,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe this woman sometimes. He hoped he never finished with being surprised at her. “We’re going to need it.”

  21

  THE AIR IN the tent was close and hot. The white linen panels of the walls were dazzlingly bright from the sun’s radiance. Malcolm and the other lords of Tener were crowded around a narrow table at the center, squinting down at a ragged parchment map that showed a rough approximation of the battlefield outside. The sound of drums and horns and the slow, rolling clamor of hundreds of soldiers echoed over the lake.