The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  “Stop it,” Gwen hissed. Her voice failed her, and she realized tears were streaming down her face. She backed away from the phantoms of her dead family. “Stop doing this. You’re mocking them. You’re mocking me.”

  “I am showing you what you face,” the gheist answered. It rose up, sliding to the side of the three dead bodies. The wound in Elspeth’s neck reopened, and her breath disappeared in a bubbling torrent of sobs. “They are mine now. Their bodies, their lives. Every memory you have of them, every happy moment you spent in their company, every hope you had for their future. Mine. Dead. Buried. In the grave. Mine is a blade that will never stop cutting, and from which no one can escape.

  “Not even you.”

  “You’re a terrible god,” Gwen muttered through her tears. “A god of misery. I will never serve you.”

  “No, but you will bow to me.” The gheist drifted closer, its slate eyes narrowed, the wicked whisper of its claws dragging through the grass. “Everyone does. I am nothing like that tame bitch you’re riding.”

  Something stirred in Gwen’s bones, a torch of rage that whispered up from her soul. The autumn gheist moved around her shoulders, quiet and angry. Gwen struggled for a breath, but then the god that was stitched to her bones broke through her skin, seizing control and speaking through her, its anger humming through her bones.

  “You have had your fun, Eldoreath,” a voice said, ringing with golden bells and fury. “The mortal child is broken, and my season is passing—but before I go, I will show you tame.” The words were not Gwen’s, their meaning risen from a soul that had never known flesh. “The conclave was right to bury your madness. Now I must finish their job.”

  “Which of us is truly risen, child?” the death gheist asked. “And which of us slept her way through the wars?”

  “Mad dogs don’t rise. They merely slip the leash for a while. Now put away your toys, and face the rage of an endless god!”

  Like puppets whose strings had been cut, the dead of House Adair fell to the ground. Colm Adair came apart like a puzzle that has been dropped. Grieg and Elspeth fell together, their arms folding over each other in a final embrace, mother comforting son, son seeking the sanctuary of his mother’s love. It broke Gwen to watch, but she could do nothing.

  The autumn gheist filled the clearing with sunset light. The poison flowers wilted, their petals breaking into new growths that squirmed between the grasses like snakes.

  Eldoreath burst forth, squeezing the clearing with the domed darkness of its limbs, trying to crush Gwen and Fomharra in a web of night. Like a coal smothered in ashes, Gwen burned hotter and hotter, brighter and brighter, until the flames of the autumn gheist slowly started breaking through the death god’s trap. The tangled web of its attack started to give. One night-dark strand snapped, and then a second, and then Gwen rose, and the god through her.

  She rose into the sky on a spear of light, a pillar of golden leaves that shuffled over her flesh like velvet. At the base, the death gheist lay in a heap, like a rubble of broken trees. Slowly, it patched itself together, gathering the shattered bits of its body together.

  Fomharra laughed, and the sound shook the forest.

  “Nothing clever left to say? No more promises of death, or exquisite murder?” Gwen looked down at the death god and laughed again. “Well, I’m glad to have shut you up, once and for—”

  Gwen started to fall.

  2

  THE DIM LIGHT of dozens of campfires stretched to the horizon, their flames flickering beneath the banners of the south. Tents creaked in the stiff autumn wind, and laughter drifted up from the Suhdrin camp. Above them, the sky was crowned in glittering stars, and Cinder’s pale face hung like a coin in the sky.

  A second camp clustered inside of the Fen Gate’s ruined walls. The Tenerrans were a somber lot, staying close to the castle walls and talking quietly among themselves. The guards that roamed the perimeter were deadly serious, as scared of the Suhdrin army as they were of the coiled shadows of the forest. The season of mad gods was at hand, and only a fool would walk the night alone, especially in a castle as haunted as the Fen Gate was purported to be.

  The center of the castle was mostly ruin. The famous towers of Adair’s keep lay in shambles, the shattered doma and attendant halls haphazardly repaired. The only buildings that were untouched by the Fen god’s assault were the stables, the kennel, and the lonely splinter of the huntress’ tower.

  “Will they ever go home?” Malcolm muttered. He stood on what remained of the Fen Gate’s battlement, cloak clutched tightly to his chin, the chill of the coming winter sharp in his bones. Castian Jaerdin stood beside him, along with a handful of guards. Jaerdin stomped his feet against the wall, trying to hammer some warmth into his toes. The duke of Redgarden sighed.

  “They have no taste for winter. A good frost will drive them back to the Burning Coast,” Jaerdin said.

  “Somehow I think their spirit will not be so easily broken,” Malcolm answered.

  “Half their number has already retreated to Suhdra. The rest will follow, in time—and gods bless it’s soon, so that I may join them and leave this miserable land,” Jaerdin said unhappily. Malcolm chuckled. His friend was bound temple to toe in fur and misery.

  “You are welcome to return home, Redgarden,” Malcolm said. “Roard has joined his banner to our cause, and Sacombre’s heresy has taken the fire from the Suhdrin host. This war is all but over.”

  Jaerdin grunted. He nodded toward the two opposing camps and the slow orbit of guards.

  “This does not look like a field of peace,” he said.

  “No,” Malcolm said. “It does not.”

  “We must be careful, Malcolm. This was a short fight, a short season of war. These armies are merely what Halverdt was able to draw to his cause in a few months, bolstered by Sacombre’s support.” Jaerdin paused for a moment, weighing his words. “There are many spears in the south, many that have not yet stirred. We must play our cards carefully to keep them there. It is good that Roard stands with us, but not enough.”

  “You worry about Suhdra,” Malcolm said. “I get messages from the north every day, promising support should Halverdt’s host push further in their direction. Promising spears and horses and the full fury of Tener. We were lucky to keep them out of the fight so far. If Suhdra escalates, we will not be so fortunate.” He gestured down to the camps clustered below. “The smart ones have gone home. Only the stubborn remain.”

  “The stubborn and the zealous,” Castian answered. “Those who travel south carry stories of Adair’s heresy, along with the bodies of their dead. Their families will mourn, and then perhaps they will march. To avenge those deaths.”

  “May aye. May nay,” Malcolm said. “Gods will know soon enough.”

  Jaerdin didn’t answer. He just stood there, beating his feet against the stone and muttering. A messenger picked his way up the tumbling stairs to approach the two dukes. One of the guards intercepted the man, checking his identity and searching for weapons among the bundled bulk of his cloak and armor. Castian and Malcolm watched.

  “This weather really is foul,” Castian muttered. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “There is a reason we invented whiskey, Redgarden. It keeps winter at bay.”

  “Last time I was at the doma, the frair sang the autumn bell,” Castian answered. “We are barely out of summer, Houndhallow.”

  “Winter has come early,” Malcolm agreed with a nod, “and sharp.”

  “My scouts say that a dozen leagues to our south the weather breaks. Gentle autumn still reigns in most of Tenumbra, Malcolm. It’s only our little ruin that suffers,” Castian said, hopping lightly from foot to foot. “If there was any doubt this place was cursed before…”

  “Enough of that talk,” Malcolm said sharply. “My men already jump at every shadow and mouse. No need for them to hear their lords discussing curses.” He raised his voice to the guards. “Let the man through, Aine. If he has a hidden blade unde
r all those layers, it will take the better part of the night for him to draw it.”

  The guard grudgingly obeyed, but kept a close eye on the messenger. Malcolm saw why the man mistrusted the newcomer—he was dressed in the black and gold of the church.

  “News from Heartsbridge?” Malcolm asked.

  “Aye, my lord,” the man said. “His holiness Gaston LeBrieure, celestriarch of the Cinder and Strife, sends his greetings and deepest thanks for your role in uncovering the heresy of the high inquisitor.”

  “And the heresy of dear Colm Adair, I imagine,” Malcolm muttered. “Gods know what they’ll make of that in Heartsbridge.”

  “Such matters will be left in the inquisitor’s hands, I am sure,” the messenger said with a bow.

  “Inquisitor?” Malcolm asked. “Listen, the celestriarch may be a little behind in the proceedings, but Frair Lucas left us some weeks ago. There’s no other representative of the inquisition at the Fen Gate.”

  “Precisely,” the man said. “Which is why a new inquisitor will be here shortly. I left his company a day ago to give you fair warning, that his chambers might be prepared.”

  “A day ago?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes,” the messenger answered. “He should be here—”

  “In the morning,” Jaerdin finished.

  “Well,” Malcolm said stiffly. He turned to Castian and nodded his farewell. “I have preparations to make, I suppose. Aine, see that this man is given something to eat and a blanket to sleep on.”

  “My lord,” the guard said.

  “Where will we put them?” Castian asked. “It’s not like the keep’s fit for habitation. It wouldn’t do to have the roof fall on their heads while they pray. Gods know what the church would make of that.”

  “No, and I’m not sure I want to put him in Gwendolyn’s tower,” Malcolm answered. “Not until we know the depth and craft of her heresy. It could be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Castian said. “I sleep in the huntress’s tower, Malcolm!”

  “And you’re a braver man for it,” Malcolm answered with a smile. “But no, we can’t have them in the keep nor in the tower, and there’s no more room in the courtyard—even if the frair was willing to take a tent. I must think of something.”

  “Perhaps the Suhdrins could serve host to the inquisitor,” the messenger said sharply. “If you can’t find a bed worthy of the celestriarch’s chosen envoy…”

  “The inquisitor did not come all this way to sleep outside the walls,” Castian said. “Last I checked, the Suhdrin host was out there, and we are in here.”

  “And they haven’t the numbers to shift us,” Malcolm said. “That much we’ve proven.”

  “Not yet,” the messenger said. Malcolm and Castian grew still, staring at the man. “They haven’t the numbers to shift you yet.” He glanced up from his stiff bow to crack a smile. “How many would it take, do you think?”

  “What have you seen?” Castian snapped. “You traveled here from Heartsbridge. What did you pass along the way?”

  “Again, I will leave that for the inquisitor.” He turned to the guard. “There was talk of a bed? It has been a long day.”

  Malcolm kept his eyes on the messenger. After a moment he nodded stiffly to the guard, watching as the man was led away. When they were alone on the parapet, he turned to Castian.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  “A threat? A warning?” Castian ventured. “Perhaps the inquisition will stir up trouble as they come north. I would not put it past them. They won’t want the Circle of Lords to focus on Sacombre, not for too long. Better that the dukes worry about the threat of Tener.”

  “The threat of Tener,” Malcolm said. “The threat of the pagan night.”

  “Whether real or not,” Castian agreed. “Best we find the inquisitor a comfortable bed.”

  “I’d hoped to have the doma repaired before anyone from Heartsbridge arrived,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “I wanted them to find us faithful. Singing the evensong. Observing the rites.”

  “They know of your faith, Malcolm,” Castian said.

  “Do they? Perhaps.” Malcolm stirred himself and started toward the stairs. “I leave you to this miserable view, Redgarden. If there is a Suhdrin army marching north, I must speak with my fellow lords before news of it reaches the camps.”

  “Good night, Houndhallow,” Castian said, turning back to stare uncomfortably over the vista. “And godspeed.”

  Malcolm hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping on the broken stones of the stairwell. Morning didn’t give him much time. And there was much to do.

  Grant MaeHerron was waiting at the base of the wall. The big man was dressed for battle, his axe cradled loosely in his arms like a child. The heir of the Feltower—still presumptive until his father’s death could be confirmed—was never far from his axe. The edge shone as bright as silver in the torchlight.

  Malcolm nodded. “We have guests coming, Feltower.”

  “Sir MaeHerron, if you please,” the man rumbled. “My father may live.”

  “You must accept his passing, Grant,” Malcolm said quietly. He had known the boy since his birth. Grant MaeHerron was a few years older than his own son, and had always kept himself apart from the rest of the children of the Tenerran court, but it was hard to think of him as the duke of the Feltower. “You must accept your father’s death, and his title. Your men need you. We all need you.”

  “He may live,” Grant repeated stubbornly, hugging the weapon closer.

  Malcolm sighed, but shook his head. “We will discuss this another day. For now, there is news from the south, and preparations to be made.”

  “I saw the church’s messenger when he arrived,” Grant said. “His horse was near dead. The inquisition is coming?”

  “They’ll be here in the morning,” Malcolm said, “but that is not our greatest worry. Are the other lords awake?”

  “Roard and his whelp watch the gate. Dougal and Thaen take some rest. Jaerdin was with you. I don’t know where the others are.”

  “Gather them. The Tenerrans only. Leave Roard at his watch,” Malcolm said. “What of Rudaine’s host? Who commands the men of the Drowned Hall?”

  “His master of guard, a man named Franklin Gast. Word has been sent, to ascertain the will of Rudaine’s heir,” Grant said. “They may leave us.”

  “Go wake them, and bring them to what remains of the doma. We have much to discuss.”

  “Are we finally breaching the subject of surrender?” Grant asked.

  “Wait for the doma,” Malcolm said. “We will have a friar bless the meeting, and then we will see what is necessary.”

  Grant MaeHerron nodded gruffly, then left, still clutching his axe. That man would not surrender easily, Malcolm knew, either his hope or this castle. He turned and slipped into the shadows of the ruined keep.

  Hurrying through the corridors, he nodded imperceptibly to each of the dozen hidden guards who protected this part of the castle from curious eyes. They were dressed as stablers, cooks, pages shirking their duties in the abandoned halls of the castle, but each wore chain under their disguise and kept sword and spear near to hand. They let Malcolm pass without comment.

  He came to a door and knocked. There were muffled voices inside.

  “Who goes?”

  “Her husband,” Malcolm answered, careful to not use his name or station. Anyone trying to impersonate him would surely draw on the duke’s authority to bull his or her way inside. “Let me in, Doone.”

  He heard someone pull aside the cloth that was jammed beneath the door, a dim light filling the corridor as soon as it was clear. Locks were thrown. Sir Doone eased the door open, her eyes flicking past Malcolm to the corridor beyond. Once she was sure things were safe, she urged Malcolm inside and closed the door. The locks were in place before Malcolm’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

  His wife provided the only light in the room. The witch’s touch that had saved her life and cursed her flesh
had changed Sorcha into a creature of strange light and stranger mien. She sat in a chair of fitted stone, its surface weeping with condensation. There were no windows in the narrow chamber, but Lady Blakley still stared wistfully to the west, the direction her son had traveled weeks ago. Her veins glowed with murky light.

  Sorcha’s blood was gone, transformed into clear, bright liquid that flickered with an inner light. When she glanced at Malcolm, her eyes were deep pools of shimmering water, and her hair shifted restlessly around her head like a crown of seaweed. Malcolm went to one knee beside her.

  “My love?” he whispered. “We must go.”

  3

  GWEN FELL AND didn’t stop. Whatever strange link held her in the pillar of light was coming loose. Panic welling up, she could feel her soul snagging on some unseen line as she tumbled through the leaves, struck the ground with a thump, bounced, crashed down again. Her breath left her, and her skull rang like a bell.

  As she lay there senseless for a moment, her vision swam with the forest and the sky and the towering body of the autumn gheist. Gwen tried to stand, but the strength was gone from her limbs. She tried to cry out, but could only gape like a beached fish. Her breath began to come back to her, when an unspeakable force grabbed her and dragged her along the forest floor.

  Gwen bounced from tree to mossy stone, digging a rut in the damp sod whenever she thumped back to earth. She lurched, jerking along for a dozen yards and then stopping. Pulled forward again, going through bracklebush and grassy field. Finally, between crashing jerks, she was able to reach her feet and look around.

  The autumn gheist had been dragging her like a forgotten toy. A fragile net of amber light trailed from the god’s body, tangling among Gwen’s limbs, disappearing into her flesh and emerging again. Before she could say or do anything, the gheist took another massive step, jerking her off her feet and crashing through the forest.

  Fomharra stopped again, and Gwen was able to quickly regain her feet.

  “Wait!” she shouted. “Where are you going? Come back!”