The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  “There will be no food south—the army has seen to that,” Sir Torvald said. The big knight sat awkwardly on a dray that was much too small for his bulk, his own horse having died during the siege of the Fen Gate. “We lost a lot of supply wagons to pagan raiders as we came north. We had to forage our meals.”

  “And had to burn down the farms while you were at it, just to be thorough,” Lucas said.

  “It was war,” Torvald answered.

  “Yes, yes, there’s no better word for it. War,” Lucas said. He looked mournfully across the horizon, holding back a sigh. “We will keep to the road.”

  “Beg pardon, frair, but is that wise? The Reaveholt is still in Tenerran hands. Adair hands, if you believe the stories. One of his heretic knights is still holed up behind those walls, succoring gods know how many witches!”

  “Then it’s best we follow that path, speak to these witches, and see their justice done,” Lucas said. Torvald perked up at that, forcing the frair to shake his head. “We are not bringing war to the Reaveholt, Sir Torvald. We escort the wounded and condemned, not to mention the heretic Tomas Sacombre. Our business is for the church, and the church’s writ will be honored. Even at the Reaveholt.”

  “They will not let us pass easily,” Torvald answered.

  “Not if we come to them with sword and fire, no,” Lucas said. He looked back at the tangled column that followed them. Wagons full of the infirm, spottily guarded by Suhdrin knights, many of them nursing wounds even as they patrolled. They were a sorry lot, those too broken by the gods at the Fen Gate to face battle, or overwhelmed by the betrayal of the high inquisitor, in whom they had placed their trust. This was not a fighting force. It was a rout, of the spirit if not the body, and somehow Lucas had ended up in charge of it.

  At the center of the column sat an iron wagon, barred and guarded. It held two prisoners—the witch Fianna, handed over by Malcolm Blakley in the wake of the battle at the Fen Gate, and former high inquisitor Tomas Sacombre. There was the source of Frair Lucas’s authority, and his greatest burden. For he was the man charged with bringing the high inquisitor to trial, to justice, and probably to death. The column followed his word, out of some kind of awe or fear or just sympathy.

  A familiar figure rode beside the wagon, dressed in the bright red of his house. Facing Lucas, Martin Roard raised an arm in salute. The boy had insisted on following the caravan south, leaving his father to treat with Malcolm Blakley back at the Fen Gate. Lucas suspected he was ashamed at having betrayed his lifelong friend, Ian Blakley, or perhaps intended to set his honor right by seeing Sacombre brought to justice.

  Lucas turned back to the cross-country scar.

  “The men and women who fled along this route will be desperate. They are far from home, stranded in the pagan north with its feral gods and blood-hungry raiders. They burned any possible shelter on their way up, so we can’t imagine them seeing much hospitality from those they left behind,” Lucas said. “We cannot count on their loyalty. They will be more interested in their safety than our duty.”

  “Isn’t it our duty to see them safely home?” Torvald said. “They are Suhdrin brothers after all.” The big knight sat slumped in his saddle, the wispy ends of his moustache drooping nearly to his elbows.

  “Some questions have a spiritual answer. Questions of duty and faith and honor,” Lucas responded, turning to Torvald, then back to the ruin to their south. “Others, however, have a practical answer. We don’t have the food to spare, sir. If we follow that path, we will starve before we reach Greenhall.”

  “And if the guardians of the Reaveholt refuse us?” Torvald asked.

  “They will not,” Lucas answered, and hoped it was true.

  * * *

  The walls of the Reaveholt were ancient and strong. The bluffs along the Tallow were steep, the river a roaring whitewater that couldn’t be crossed. The castle perched like a hawk on the river’s edge, overlooking the Holtspan, the great bridge that joined north and south.

  Halverdt’s army had bypassed this stronghold out of desperation and zealous speed, instead crossing at the fords at White Lake following the rout of Malcolm’s army. Even if the siege of the Fen Gate had continued, the garrison here would have proven an insurmountable thorn in the side of the Suhdrin army.

  Lucas ordered the colors stowed, all save the black and gold banner of the church and the white flag of peace. High Elector Beaunair had ridden under the church’s banner. His body was among the wagons, along with Duke Halverdt and the rest of the honored dead—those noble or wealthy enough to justify carrying home for burial.

  They formed into columns to emphasize the thinness of their ranks, and let the wagons of dead and wounded wind down the road. Frair Lucas rode at the head, with Torvald and the few Suhdrin lords who accompanied them. Only Duke LaGaere rode in full regalia, his armor shined and his lance hung with the favors of the inquisition. Martin Roard left his distinctive copper armor in the wagons, opting for simple linen and a tabard of red and yellow. The young man looked out of place among the grizzled knights who followed close behind. That lot was armed and armored, but their numbers weren’t enough to pose a true threat to the castle.

  The defenders watched from the walls. The only banner to fly from the towers was that of Sir Bourne, a red waterwheel with a leaping fish above, all on a field of black.

  “At least he has struck Adair’s colors,” Lucas said. “That’s a positive sign.”

  “As Adair struck his pagan colors following the crusade, and we can all see where that led,” LaGaere muttered. There was a murmur of agreement among the knights, but it died as soon as Lucas turned to face them. The Duke of Warhome shrugged. “We must judge our enemies by their actions, frair,” he persisted defensively. “I have seen enough Tenerran betrayal to fill a tome. I will not soon forget that.”

  “What of Sacombre?” Lucas countered. “Was his betrayal any less, and that while wearing the colors of the inquisition? I am wearing an inquisitor’s robe, and answer to the inquisitor’s title. Do you suspect me of the same heresy, Warhome?”

  “That would be a dangerous game, frair,” LaGaere answered. “Besides, without Sacombre, we would never have uncovered Adair’s heresy. Perhaps he led us true, despite his failing.”

  “That is for Heartsbridge to decide,” one of the knights said quickly. She wore Fabron’s colors, but with a crest of circled antlers on her breast. Lucas remembered her from the last Frostnight tournament he had spent in the south, five seasons past. She had been an ace in the gentleblade tournament. He was surprised to find her in an army of invasion. Her name was Chloe Horne, if his memory served.

  “Yes,” Martin Roard agreed. “We must not allow the faithful of Suhdra to doubt the high inquisitor’s sins. Malcolm Blakley was very insistent on that point.”

  “Is Malcolm Blakley your lord?” LaGaere asked. “Or do you act in the interest of Stormwatch, as your father commanded?”

  “The needs of Stormwatch and the needs of Houndhallow are often joined,” Martin said shortly. A round of mocking laughter went through the knights, starting and ending with LaGaere’s sneering face. Martin remained unswayed. Sir Horne stepped to his aid.

  “It is best to judge before we act,” she said. “Isn’t that what Cinder teaches us?”

  “A battlefield does not allow such luxury,” LaGaere said.

  “We are not here to do battle, my lord,” Horne answered. “Else we would be flying the flag of peace dishonestly.”

  “No,” Lucas said, “we are not. Warhome, you stay here. If Sir Bourne decides to cut us down in a hail of arrows, you have my blessing to wage whatever battle you see fit. Sir Torvald, Sir Roard, Sir Horne, if the three of you would come with me.” Lucas turned to face the closed gate of the Reaveholt. “Let us see what sort of peace we can find.”

  * * *

  The approach to the Reaveholt was stone that extended in all directions from the gate. The bluffs were freshly scraped of moss and grass, leaving only rock unde
r hoof as Lucas and his two companions rode forward. Fresh scars marked the ground. Sir Horne peered down at them as they passed.

  “What are these?” she asked.

  “Scars struck by iron arrowheads,” Lucas said. “Bodkins, probably. They’ll be saving the broadtips for us, if this goes poorly.”

  “They have been practicing their ranges, sir,” Torvald said quietly. “In anticipation of our visit.”

  “Ah,” Horne answered as understanding dawned on her, and then a moment later and a little more quietly, “Ah.”

  “Let us hope their judgment matches their preparation,” Martin muttered.

  There were no archers to be seen on the walls, but that meant little. A single spotter from the tower could direct flights from the courtyard, as long as the bowmen were trained and the distances known. Lucas could feel the sweat pouring down his back in spite of the early autumn chill. He tried not to flinch when a flock of sparrows leapt from the gatehouse tower. It was all he could do to keep his eyes forward and his reins steady. The horses sensed their rider’s tension, speeding up slightly in an effort to close the distance. Lucas kept them at an even trot.

  The gate creaked open and three riders came out. Like Duke LaGaere, they were dressed in full regalia, horses caparisoned in the colors of the house of Sir Bourne, lances and shields at the parade ready. Horne and Torvald drew close to Lucas’s flanks, their knees nearly touching, with Martin a bit behind. Lucas cleared his throat.

  “This is not a charge, sirs. No need to close ranks just yet.”

  “They know what we’re about,” Torvald said. “Those three aren’t here to talk peace.”

  “Then it will be a short conversation. One you should leave to me, sir,” Lucas said. “I don’t want to risk a fight.”

  Sir Bourne himself wasn’t among the three who rode out to meet them. All three had the look of professional men-at-arms, soldiers sworn to their house at birth, accustomed to the blade. Apart from their dark hair and the tattoos that crawled across their brows, these men were indistinguishable from Suhdrin soldiers, with their plate-and-half, heraldry, and saddles.

  Bleach their hair and clean their faces, and these three could grace the court of any southern lord, Lucas thought. The three Tenerrans stopped as he and his companions approached, until the distance between them was close enough for swords.

  “The things we fight over are so little,” Lucas muttered.

  “So little?” the lead Tenerran spat. “Would you call the pillage of the Fen ‘so little’? Would you call the rape of our land and the murder of our lord so little?”

  “My apologies,” Lucas said quickly. “I was just musing on our differences, and our likenesses. There is more that binds us together than separates us. Especially in faith.”

  “We put our faith in the church, and see what that got us?” the man answered. “A Suhdrin army ranging our homelands, and the hold of our lord toppled by Suhdrin treachery. Have you finally decided to come south and deal with our little nuisance of a castle?”

  “Peace, peace,” Lucas said. “The army of the south has splintered, and their will to fight has broken.”

  “Don’t let LaGaere hear you say that,” Sir Horne muttered with a glance over her shoulder.

  “No matter,” the Tenerran said. “Suhdrin bandits roam the countryside, and banners of the south remain at the Fen Gate. Now you come to Reaveholt in force, no doubt to secure the path for your inevitable and cowardly retreat.”

  “Does this look like a column of war to you?” Lucas asked, the exasperation plain in his voice. “We carry the dead and dying, along with those who have seen through Sacombre’s deception and given up the fight. We have no grudge with you, and would not seek one.”

  “If it was Sacombre’s lie that started this war, why does a priest of the inquisition lead this force?” the man asked.

  “Of all the things that binds us together, north and south, it is the celestial faith that is strongest. Have you renounced your loyalty to Cinder, as well as Strife?” Lucas asked. The Tenerran seemed startled by this, but before he could answer, the frair plowed forward. “If the charges against Sacombre are true, and he committed heresy in provoking this war, who is better equipped to negotiate the peace than the inquisition? The same goes for Colm Adair. Would you rather all Tener bear the weight of his sin? Or do you trust the inquisition to shrive right from wrong, and guilt from innocence?”

  “The stories about the baron are—” the man began. Lucas interrupted at the top of his lungs.

  “I have stood in the witches’ hallow,” he shouted, “and witnessed the pagan rites to which Colm Adair was loyal. I have faced the demon summoned by Tomas Sacombre, and hunted the heretics that the high inquisitor corrupted with his lies. My brother priests!” He drew himself up. “You do not tell me about the stories, sir, I have faced the pagan, and the heretic, and the monster—and Cinder as my judge, I will see them brought to justice if it’s with my last breath!”

  This silenced the Tenerrans. The men fidgeted on their horses, looking from the walls to the column of Suhdrin refugees.

  “You hunt Tomas Sacombre?” the leader said eventually. “Because I swear by sun and summer that he has not passed this way.”

  “No,” Lucas said with a grim smile. “He has not. Yet.”

  7

  IAN’S FOOT LEFT the branch of the nightmare tree. The mists swirled around his face, the forest disappearing behind him as though he was flying straight up into a cloudy sky. He breached the wall of clouds and spiraled into an expanse of blinking stars.

  The strange man appeared before him, hunched forward on a promontory of rock that cut into the fog like the prow of a ship. A wide spit of land lurked just beneath the cloudbank, a dark form—forms?—masked by the gloom. Ian hung there like a leaf caught in the wind. The man, his bright eyes hazed in shadow, twitched upright. This time Ian’s gaze remained steady on them.

  “You have not yet found your way home? I thought your tame dawn would be escort enough.” He waved a palsied hand at Ian’s hovering form, dropping him from the sky. The ground slapped into Ian’s feet as he fell. “You cannot stay here much longer. Either of you.”

  “We’d be happy to leave, Father Night,” Ian said. The gheist shivered at the words, a slow smile that cracked the skin of his lips.

  “Father Night,” he chuckled. “Such an easy title, and so quiet. Call me by other names, son of hounds. I am the child of death. The little winter. Every day’s reminder of the end of life itself.”

  “My father always says the night is nothing more than the home of lies and dishonest men. A place for treachery, for banditry, for behavior unworthy of honorable men. Darkness must be suffered, if we are to appreciate the light.”

  “Your father says this?” the gheist asked, straightening his back, revealing unexpected height. His gaunt frame rose high above Ian. “Your father will die. Let’s weigh the value of his words when they come from the grave.”

  “You shouldn’t be so haughty,” Ian said, drawing himself up. “Gods end as well, just like the night, and winter.”

  “You have a twisted view of the world, child,” the gheist answered. “There is no end to the night. Not even dawn can break us. The rising sun is only the promise of another nightfall. A child is born for no reason other than to die.” The gheist waved a twisted, dismissive hand in Ian’s direction and started to turn away. “I have no time for this.”

  “Gods die,” Ian insisted. “At the hands of mortal men, and women, and children.” He reached out, palms up, smiling. “At my hands.”

  The gheist paused, glancing over his shoulder with a sneer.

  “A tiny threat, from a tiny man,” the gheist said. “Leave me.”

  “That is not how this works,” Ian snapped. “We are not free to come and go. You’ve seen to that, with your nightmares and your maze of trees. Elsa would cut her way free if she could, and she is not a woman accustomed to being rescued. We cannot leave you. No.” Ian shook
his head, drawing his fists even with his waist. “You must leave us.”

  “Oh? And how will this be accomplished?” The gheist turned, and lurched closer. “How will you expel me from my own realm, Ian of Hounds? You have no bloodwrought blade. You know nothing of the rites of my theos.” Closer, the gheist’s face grew calm. His smile faded, and the cracked ruin of his lips formed a jagged line. “There is nothing you can do to me, child.”

  “Does your brother know you are stealing from him?” Ian asked. The gheist paused and became very still.

  “My brother?”

  “Now you forget? You are the shadow of death, that darkest of gods, and yet you try to claim what is rightfully his.”

  “I know not what you are talking about,” the gheist said too quickly, backing away, then turning. “Return to your companion,” he said over his shoulder. “Take what comfort you can in her light before it snuffs out.”

  “I will,” Ian said. “Once we are free.” He looked around the spit of land on which they stood, and pointed to the shadows that lurked just beneath the fog. “Did you think I wouldn’t see these? Do you think the god of death won’t miss them?”

  “Be gone!” the gheist snapped. The rolling sea of fog swelled up to Ian’s knees, the chill of it leaking through his breeches, hiding the shadows in its murk. “I take only what comes to me. I have been gentle on you so far. The realm of dream has sharper horrors than this!”

  “Death counts its cost,” Ian returned, gathering the mist closer. The memory of Fianna came to him, the power she exerted to carry her fellow druids on wings of fog, back when they were traveling the Fen. “No man escapes it, no woman, no child. Not even these few.”

  “You have the witch’s touch to you, child. I did not sense it at first, but now… what are you trying to do now?”

  “Just clearing the air a bit,” Ian said. He pushed outward with his heart, snagging the blanket of fog like a net and throwing it away from him. The murk disappeared with a breath, leaving only rough stone underfoot.