by Tim Akers
“You do not hold me, child,” the gheist breathed, its voice humming through Gwen’s skull. “And my season is done.”
“But I need, we must… the demon!”
“We must nothing,” Fomharra said, then turned away and continued its journey. Gwen fell, tumbled, and was dragged through a field of raw stone before coming to rest on the pebbled beach of the river that bounded the hallow. From her knees, Gwen could see the bluffs beyond. She was about to cry out when the gheist moved again.
Gwen tumbled into the river.
The cold took her breath and her sense. She fought against the current, but no matter which way she thrashed, she was dragged deeper under the surface. Her lungs burned, already empty from screaming and the constant, thudding impacts of her journey. The strands of light that tied her to the towering gheist pulled her forward. By the time she reached the far shore, Gwen was limp as a rag.
River water poured clear and cold from her mouth as she was pulled up the beach. The sky and stones rolled over her. Her mind drifted. She would be shattered against the stone cliffs, or dragged into a lake, or left to freeze somewhere in the wilds of the Fen. She was dead. She was ruined.
Gwen tumbled against something stuck into the stones of the beach. It was warm to the touch, and when she folded over it, it cut her like a knife.
Like a sword.
Gwen opened her eyes.
Sir LaFey’s lost blade stuck like a mast from the ground. When the gheist moved forward, the skeins of light that bound it to Gwen strained against the blade. She thought she might be cut in half, and blood poured dark and hot from her wounds, but she stayed put. She wrapped her hands around the hilt and pulled her belly away from the cutting edge. The gheist tugged again. The lines pulled taut, humming with the strain. And then they snapped.
As she collapsed to the beach, Gwen’s blood mixed with water that was still streaming from her nostrils. She whimpered as the injuries crashed through her mind, lay there as the amber light of the autumn god dimmed on the horizon, and then was gone. Her hands had been cut deeply by the blade, and the wounds inflicted by the death gheist festered with wicked shadows.
* * *
The first footfall was nearly silent, the practiced stride of a woodland hunter, taught by the wolf and the whisper. A shadow lurked among the trees, bright eyes staring at the fallen huntress. It was joined by another shadow, and then a third, and then the forest was full of silent spears.
Cahl stepped from among the trees, followed by a cadre of pagans with their cloaks and spears and crowns of willow. He walked to Gwen and knelt beside her broken body. He glanced at the sword, Gwen’s blood leaking into the runes of Strife, remnants of heat curling off the blade.
“It is the huntress,” he said finally. He gathered her into his arms and stood. Her arms hung limp, trailing ribbons of blood. “There is still time for her soul, if not her flesh.”
“She has lost the god,” one of his companions said sharply. It was a man tattooed with a mask of leaves. “Fianna said she would fail us. What good is she to us now?”
“You have lost too much of yourself, Aedan. She is not a forest to be burned for our warmth.” Cahl stretched his cloak to cover Gwen’s unconscious body, then nodded to his other companion. The young boy, little more than a child, stepped forward eagerly. “Taeven, stay here. They will come looking for her, or for what happened to her. Warn them that the god of death has slipped its chains, and that the autumn god is lost as well.” He started to turn away, paused, glared at the sword. “And see that the vow knight gets her sword back, but be sure that she knows the cost of that blade, and the weight of the death that goes with it.”
“I will,” Taeven said seriously.
Without another word, Cahl slipped among the trees. Within moments the beach was empty of all but the young pagan, and the blade, and the sound of shadows in the forest.
4
I AN BENT HIS head close to the charger’s neck and spurred the beast on. The forest whipped past them, branches scoring bloody tracks across his cheeks. The only light was the dim image of Elsa LaFey’s fleeing form, sunlight leaking from her armor, briefly illuminating the narrow path before surrendering to the shadows. The sound of his horse, the whistling passage of trees, the hammering of his heart, all filled Ian’s head and drowned out any other thought but flight and fear.
Behind them, a mad god followed. It brushed aside the trees as though they were bowling pins, roots popping out of the soil with dull squelching sounds, trunks groaning as they fell. The earth shook.
Ian spared a glance over his shoulder. The gheist’s back writhed with a thousand barbed quills that rustled drily as they slithered together. Its head was a thick lump, mouthless, bristling with smooth black eyes. The creature was falling back, however, until only the mosaic of its eyes was visible in the scant light that shone from Elsa’s invocations. Ian smiled, turned back to the trail…
…and had to react quickly. Elsa was stopped, her mount pulled up and stomping sideways on the path. The vow knight was leaning over the saddle and looking down. Beyond her there was nothing.
Ian pulled hard on his reins. His horse complained, skidding on the damp ground as it dug iron-shod hooves into the earth. He came up just short of a ravine, its edges sharp with rocky debris. Water crashed far below.
“This way,” Elsa said quickly, then she set off along the ravine’s lip. Both directions looked the same to Ian, a jagged cliff that stretched into the darkness. He briefly considered abandoning the vow knight, counting on her holy glow to draw the gheist, but he would be lost without her. And even if he survived this attack, Ian would be helpless against the next. So he pulled his horse in line and spurred forward, trying to keep up. He glanced back again to see if their pursuer would pick up their scent.
The gheist skidded to a halt, large stones clattering over the edge of the ravine, to drop loudly into the noisy river below. It looked around, its coat of barbed quills undulating silently, and saw them. It was terribly still for a heartbeat, watching them with its multitude of eyes. Then it followed, moving faster now that it was clear of the trees.
Ian turned toward Elsa. “We should get back into the forest!” he yelled.
“Gheists have boundaries,” Elsa replied. “Even ferals have rules.”
“You think we’ll be safe across the river?”
“No idea,” she said, “but we weren’t safe in the forest, and the horses can’t keep this up much longer. We need to find a place to cross!”
She was right. Ian’s mount was quivering under his thighs. Between the constant riding and frequent pursuit, these horses didn’t have much left in them. The last thing he wanted was to have to walk out of the Fen. He had done it once, but that had been in the company of a witching wife and her shaman. There had been fewer gheists that time, too.
Fewer by far.
The barbed, bristling god came closer, and their mounts were slowing. Ian pulled up next to Elsa, the vow knight’s mount trembling at the verge of collapse. LaFey’s scarred cheeks were bright with embers. She was burning her blood to keep the horses going, but there was only so much Strife’s magic could do. The pair exchanged a look. Elsa shook her head.
“No further,” she said.
Ian looked around. This far from the forest’s edge, they were on a broad ledge of stone and moss. The horses stumbled to a halt, and Elsa slid from her saddle. She started adjusting her armor, cutting the buckles on several heavier pieces and throwing them away to clatter on the rocks.
“So, here then,” Ian said.
“Keep going,” Elsa said. Her voice was ragged. “I can hold it for a while.”
“No,” Ian answered. He slid to the ground, twisted, and cracked his back, staring down the ravine at the rapidly closing gheist. “Even if my horse could go another step, no. This is my death as much as it is yours.”
“Have a little faith,” Elsa said smartly. “I may yet live. I’m wearing armor, at least.”
“Ah, but I’m faster on my feet.”
“Just fast enough to die fancy,” she said, holding her sword at arm’s length, frowning at the blade. It was plain and gray, without the bloodwrought runes of the winter vow. Elsa had lost her sword at the witches’ hallow, when Gwen’s magical presence had swept her miles away in the blink of an eye. This blade came from the Fen Gate’s armory. “If only I had my true sword.”
“Always making excuses,” Ian said. “You don’t see me complaining.”
“No one expects much of the half-heretic son of Houndhallow,” she replied. “Once I’m gone, this forest will swallow you whole. You’re fucked, Blakley.”
And then the gheist was on them. It leapt into the air, its broad limbs going wide, claws extended, the barbed cloak of its back bristling against the night. It grew larger and larger as it jumped, its eyes twinkling brightly, and then its chest split. An ebon slash ran from throat to groin, widening as it fell toward them, until pure darkness filled the sky.
The creature’s form dissolved into the air. Its quills flaked away, becoming motes of sharp light that fluttered down like snowflakes. Its eyes scattered and became stars, twisting into unfamiliar constellations in a moonless sky. Its body dissipated into inky smoke that curled between the trees. Talons clattered to the ground.
The river was gone.
The horses were gone.
They were somewhere else.
“So,” Elsa said, still in guard position. Her sword leaked molten light, the metal of the blade popping as it fried in Elsa’s hands.
“We seem to have found a new and interesting way to die,” Ian said. He slid his blade from its scabbard. “Though I don’t remember dying. Is this the quiet?”
“I’m not the sort of priest who could tell you,” Elsa said. “Though I think not.” The ground around them turned into soft loam, sprouting with tufts of pale grass that bore a disturbing resemblance to the creature’s quills. The forest was there, but at a distance, and a thick fog swirled around them, as black as night.
“Your light is dimming,” Ian said.
“I’m tired.”
“No, I mean…” he stepped closer. “It’s as though the air is eating it.”
Elsa looked down. The cloak of sunlight that wafted off of her armor was evaporating like cobwebs touched to flame. She grunted.
“This is more than darkness,” she said. “I can see the stars just fine.”
“Yes, though they are no less disturbing,” Ian said. While they watched, the constellations disappeared in an undulating wave, to shine brighter as they reappeared.
“I’ve heard tell of gheists like this,” Elsa said. “They are a place, rather than a deity. A realm.”
“So it… ate us?”
“Absorbed, more like,” Elsa said, creeping carefully forward. “But not the horses.”
“Lucky horses.”
“May aye, may nay.” Elsa clenched her shoulders, straining against the darkness. Her sun-touched aura flared briefly and then flickered out. The vow knight staggered, and Ian reached for her. She shrugged his hand away. After a few heartbeats of silence, she shook her head, her voice rough.
“We will not be burning our way out of this.”
“Is that always your first instinct, Sir LaFey?” Ian asked gently.
“First and last and always,” she answered. “Come, there must be a way forward.”
Despite the darkness they could see where they walked, though the view bore no distinguishing landmarks. There was the distant forest, which never seemed to get closer, the barbed grass that clattered peacefully in the slight breeze, and the sky of unfamiliar stars that occasionally blinked in horizon-spanning waves.
They walked aimlessly.
“There is something among the trees,” Ian whispered.
“Yes,” Elsa answered.
He could just barely see it, out of the corner of his eye, a cloak flickering between branches, eyes the color of distant stars. A pack of predators—perhaps wolves—followed the apparition, stepping lightly through the forest like a fog.
“The god, do you think?”
“Or his demons. You’re the one steeped in pagan lore, young Houndhallow. What is this place?”
Ian kept looking around, stepping carefully among the tufts of grass, straining his ears for any hint of the river they had left behind. The trees were filled with strange sounds, like dry bones rubbing together, and the rattle of insect song.
“This is the night,” he said, finally.
“That is close enough.”
A voice came from in front of them, sounding like velvet carefully cut by the sharpest shears, as quiet and soft as a sigh. Abruptly they were at the tree line. Part of the darkness solidified, and a hunched figure stepped out. His face was smooth and dark, and his hair was pale. It was difficult to focus on his features. Ian’s gaze kept sliding away from the man’s glittering eyes, though his mouth hung in Ian’s vision like an afterimage, teeth and lips set in a grimace, the corners cracked and wet.
“Why are you crossing through my realm?”
“Crossing through?” Elsa asked. “You brought us here. We’d be happy to leave.”
“That cannot be.” The man twitched, his head shifting like a king settling his crown. A palsied hand appeared from behind the figure to briefly touch his heart. “All come to me. All are gathered to this realm. I have never sought another to bring them in. You must be mistaken.”
“And yet, here we are,” Ian said.
“Indeed,” the man said, bowing slightly at the waist. “And so I ask, what has brought you and the others to my realm?”
“The others?” Ian asked. He looked around, saw nothing but the stars and the forest and the darkness. “What others?”
“Men of steel and ink. There is a familiar taste to them, but I am a stranger to their hearts. They have forsaken me.” The man looked Ian over, lingering on his face, as though trying to recall him from some memory. “There is something of me in your heart, however. Who are you?”
“Ian Blakley, of Houndhallow,” Ian replied. “I am—”
“The hound hunts through my forests during the day, but cowers at his master’s fire when I come to him.” The man looked from Ian to Elsa, smiling as though he had made a joke. “My realm is for wolves, Ian of Hounds. Best you get going, before they find you.”
“This is worthless,” Elsa spat. She strode forward, her gait stiff, blade swept back and ready at her thigh. The loamy ground swelled beneath her feet, wrinkling into ridges that absorbed her steps. She stumbled on, but with each step her feet sunk deeper and deeper into the ground, until thick moss was churning around her waist. She shouted in frustration, and a wave of flickering light washed over the ground. The grasses crisped and turned to ash. The ground shrank away from her.
“That was hardly proper,” the strange man said. He was no longer close to them, his still form standing off to one side, fingertips lightly brushing the cracked flesh of his lips. “I know your kind, summer-child. You have your own realm. Leave me to mine.”
“Then return me, or I’ll cut my way through!”
“Hardly proper,” the man repeated, then he began to fade into the trees.
“Wait!” Ian shouted. He ran forward, and the world seemed to tilt, causing him to drop his sword. It disappeared in the darkness. He found himself running uphill, though the ground remained steady. Ian pressed on. “You can’t leave us here!”
The man looked startled at his approach, and shrank back. Ian reached the trees and used them to pull himself forward. The world tipped again, and he was suddenly hopping from trunk to trunk like the rungs of a giant’s ladder. He glanced behind, and Elsa’s light shone dimly in the fog. From this distance it looked as though she were trapped in a cage of branches, her blade flashing back and forth.
Ian struggled on.
His hand came down on something cold. Instantly a wetness spread down his arm, to drip from his elbow. His hand was wrapped around the bla
de of a sword, its tip buried in the trunk of a tree. He jerked back, blood trailing from his split palm, pain reaching his senses. Shaking his fingers he examined the wound, a narrow cut, not deep enough to reach muscle, but bleeding like a split wineskin.
He looked up at the tree and saw that it was a collection of arms and armor. Spears rattled against branches, broken helms hung like rusty fruit, and bodies. A half-dozen bodies dangled, their faces cloaked in mist, their limbs twisted as if in some final spasm of horror.
“The others,” Ian whispered to himself. He crept closer, careful where he placed his hands and feet, until he was alongside one of the bodies. It turned slowly on a length of chain, its limbs wasted and thin. The corpse wore the black tabard of House Thyber. The sigil of the earl of Cindermouth, the pale hand seared with a crescent moon on the palm, hung in tatters from the dead man’s chest.
Again the forest changed. It became vertical, the ground a sheer cliff from which the trees emerged like arrow shafts. They shifted and formed a thick web of stone-hard wood, their canopies lost in swirling fog, their roots pulling free of the earth until there was no ground, only the directionless maze of branches and trunks—wiry limbs that snarled together. And still Ian climbed. There was a light ahead.
It was Elsa. She hung in the middle of a tangled ball of wicker, limbs bound and skin scratched raw. A steady flame flickered from the blade of her sword, and the branches around it were charred black. Then the steel, untempered in the holy forge of the Lightfort, began to fail. On seeing Ian, she struggled to turn toward him. The trees resisted, groaning as she twisted in their grasp. Her face was clutched by whip-thin branches that burrowed into her flesh. The blood that leaked from those wounds was stained with ash.
“I have no power here,” she whispered. “I burn, and the tree falls away, but eventually it returns. And this blade will not last much longer. Where have you been?”
“Climbing,” Ian said. “I just left your side.”
“Hours ago,” she said. “Where is our friend?”
Ian looked up into the maze of tree, and then down. Fogs swirled all around.