The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  “The one thing you will address is the fate of my child!” Gilliam bellowed. “I am consumed, consumed with the care of this castle and the repudiation of its gheists. Meanwhile your men are too busy knifing one another in the back to do your duty. That cannot, will not continue. You will release the prisoners from the crypts. Immediately.”

  “Lads aren’t going to like that,” Gast muttered.

  “The lads don’t have to like shit,” Gilliam said. “Not unless I tell them to, and then they’ll beg for it.” The inquisitor swept down on the sergeant, his thick hands closing around the man’s collar, his grip like a vise. “If another drop of Suhdrin blood is spilled in these walls, it will be your scalp mopping it up. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, aye,” Gast said quickly. “No need to get violent about it.”

  “There is every need to get violent about this, and since none of you can keep your knives in your sheaths, we will have to go one step more. I wanted this to be a joint effort, but that is clearly not going to work. I want every Suhdrin body out of this castle by noon tomorrow.”

  “About damned time,” Malcolm said. “It was a mistake to bring southern blades into the castle to serve as your guards, my frair.”

  Gilliam turned to him, his face grim. The inquisitor marched slowly to Malcolm’s face. He pointed at Lorien Roard.

  “Every.

  “Suhdrin.

  “Body.

  “Every Roard, every Galleux, every Jaerdin! All of them! Out!” The inquisitor drew himself up to his full height, resting his hands on the pommels of his blades. “We will cleanse the Fen Gate together, Malcolm. You and I. Alone, if we must.”

  “But… but…” Lorien stumbled over his words. “We held the castle gates during the battle. Castian Jaerdin has stood with the Blakleys since Halverdt first marched north. Our loyalty—”

  “What of it?” Gilliam demanded. “What of your loyalty? What of your honor? What does any of that matter to me, when you keep killing each other in my doma?”

  “They won’t be greeted with open arms outside these walls,” Malcolm said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “That stopped being my problem the minute you all decided that your blood was more important than your faith,” Gilliam said. He turned to Lorien. “You have served as you saw true, and Cinder alone must judge that, but it’s time for you to move on. Pack your trunks, gather your banners, and be out that gate by noon tomorrow. Make sure Castian Jaerdin goes with you.”

  “Frair, without the men of Stormwatch and Redgarden, I’m not sure we can hold this castle,” Malcolm said. “We certainly can’t properly protect you and your charges.”

  “Surely it couldn’t get any worse,” Gilliam said. “And if you can’t protect these walls, perhaps you’ll simply need to sue for peace. I’m sure Duke Marchand will be accommodating.” He returned to his chair of broken stone, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

  “Go.”

  Shocked, Lorien looked from Gast to Malcolm. Then before Malcolm could say anything, the duke of Stormwatch rushed out, his face as red as fire.

  Gast shrugged. “He’ll have his own problems getting home,” he said. “I don’t envy him.”

  “Nor will he envy you, if you fail to find my child,” Gilliam boomed from his chair. “Now get out. I must pray for patience, and the calm of winter.”

  Without another word, Malcolm left the man there, stewing in an anger that wasn’t very becoming of a priest of Cinder. As he left, Malcolm glanced back to find that the girl was staring at him, her hands knotted in prayer.

  * * *

  Malcolm called for MaeHerron and Manson Dougal, earl of Hartsgard. Gast he sent back to the crypts to see that the Suhdrins were released and safely escorted out the gate. No sooner had the order been given and the Tenerran nobles arrived than Castian Jaerdin burst into the meeting.

  “Where am I supposed to go, Malcolm?”

  “Redgarden, I assume. You do still have a castle there.”

  “You know what I mean,” Jaerdin said. “I took a tremendous risk standing with you. The other dukes in the Circle of Lords have cut my trade routes. Wheat rots in my silos, and my tolls go uncollected. If not for the support of the church, I would have bowed out of this insanity months ago! And that support is thinly given. Now that the inquisitor has kicked us out of the north, it’s likely to dry up.”

  “You can always join the siege camp,” Malcolm said bitterly. “No doubt they’d be pleased to have an insider’s advice on our defenses.”

  “Advice?” Jaerdin stood stiffly by the door, his eyes wide. “Do you think I’d betray you, Malcolm? Have not enough of my men died in your service? Have I not risked enough to prove my loyalty?”

  “The inquisitor doesn’t seem to think so,” Malcolm said. “There is nothing to do, Castian. Go home. Your neighbors will forget your transgressions, more quickly than they’ll forget my ink. It is the Suhdrin way, after all.”

  “The Suhdrin way,” Jaerdin said bitterly. “Indeed. Perhaps it is Tener who needs to bend their stubborn necks, forget the sins of their neighbors, and move on down the road.” The duke of Redgarden looked slowly around the room. A great fatigue settled on the man’s shoulders. “Very well, my lords, may the gods grant you light to warm your hearts and cold to steel them, in equal measure. Good day.”

  He strode from the room, and the door closed soundly behind him, leaving the three Tenerran lords alone. Manson Dougal cleared his throat and went to the jug of wine in the corner, pouring a healthy mug.

  “Well,” Dougal said, “he has a good question. What is he to do? What are we all going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” MaeHerron asked. “What’s the choice? My da died holding this castle. I’ll like as not join him.”

  “Let’s not abandon all glimmering hope, gentlemen,” Malcolm said. “We each have healthy contingents, if some reduced, and Rudaine’s bannermen will stay true to us, as long as Gast can keep them in order. The loss of Jaerdin and Roard will weigh heavy, yes, but it’s not devastating. Colm Adair had fewer men than this to man this castle, after all.”

  MaeHerron snorted. “The hell, you say. He had fewer men, but a great deal more walls. There are more gaps and tunnels in this ruin than a rabbit’s warren. Half our men are sleeping in the open courtyard, and the rest don’t sleep at all, for fear their rooms will collapse on them while they dream. And as for dreams…”

  “Aye, dreams,” Dougal said. “Nothing good has come from dreams.” He offered Malcolm a mug of wine.

  “As for dreams,” MaeHerron repeated. “Those that do sleep are haunted by the ghosts of this place, Houndhallow. There’s something in the stones. There’s something soaked into the mud of the Fen, and it’s nothing holy.”

  Malcolm cleared his throat, waving off the mug, then sat down beside the hearth. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and the bruises and aches of battle still lingered in his flesh. He felt like a man beaten nearly to death.

  “I know the troubles,” Malcolm said. “I’ve felt them myself, as have my men. I’m no fool, Hartsgard. This will be a rough task.”

  “And what is this task?” Dougal asked. “What are we even doing here?”

  “Doing? We’re protecting Tener,” MaeHerron said. “That’s a Suhdrin army beyond the walls. We stand on tribal land, land that has been part of the north since before the church.”

  “Halverdt’s lands were tribal lands, once,” Dougal said. “As were Malygris, and Roard, and Heartsbridge itself. This whole island was Tenerran.” The earl leaned against the hearth, frowning into his mug as though the wine had turned to vinegar. “But whose land is this now? Adair? Blakley? Sir Bourne still holds the Reaveholt. Perhaps he means to hoist his own sigil over the walls of the Fen Gate. But it’s not my land.”

  “What are you saying?” Malcolm asked.

  “I came to the Fen to protect a brother wronged. I marched beside Sorcha Blakley, to save her husband from Greenhall, and then to fight at his side on the shor
es of the White Lake. And then, among the dead and dying, I found myself here, in this castle, protecting the honor of Colm Adair. That’s when I found my trust misplaced, and my own honor in question.” He tossed the last of his wine in the fire, which hissed, then placed the mug on the mantle and folded his hands into his belt. “So I ask, what are we doing here? Who are we protecting, and why?”

  “Did your father ask these questions at the battle of Highope, when he and I stood together to defend those walls against the Reavers?” Malcolm asked. “Those Suhdrin walls? Did he ask who we were protecting? Or did he fight against their twisted iron gods, and spill the blood of their bondsworn?”

  “My father is dead, and most of those who stood at your side are with him,” Dougal answered. “This is not Highope, and those aren’t Reavers at our gate. As for twisted gods, you will find plenty enough of those beneath our feet, and in the night.” A shadow passed over his features. “I will not die to defend a pagan’s honor, Houndhallow. I will not die for this place. Let the Suhdrins have it. They can sleep restlessly beneath its shadows, and lose their souls to its madness.”

  Manson Dougal left. The door shut behind him, and the room was silent for a long time.

  “That’s the way it will be,” MaeHerron said. “Even if we stand, and we fight, someone will betray us. It won’t be a Suhdrin blade that ends us here.” He turned to Malcolm and grimaced. “It will be some Tenerran son, longing for home, missing his ma, just as scared of Adair’s ghost as he is of the Suhdrin charge. Or some daughter of Farwatch, or the Feltower, or Houndhallow, listening to the inquisitor’s accusations and deciding her soul is better tucked in the faith of the church, rather than her lord’s heart. It won’t take more than one.” He stood and set his mug on the table, shaking his head. “To open a door. To poison a well. To whisper a secret, and let the gates fly open. Only one.”

  “Aye,” Malcolm said, staring at young Grant MaeHerron, counting the secrets that could be told, and the wells that could be poisoned. “Only one.”

  19

  THE WEATHER TURNED the moment they stepped out of the Fen, as though winter waited in ambush. The road was narrow and straight, overhung with whip-elms that had long since shed their leaves. A light dusting of snow whitened the branches and lined the grass along the verge. The sky threatened more, and the air was bitterly cold.

  The going was slow, and their spirits were failing.

  Elsa huddled under a cloak of wool and fur, her breath huffing out from the hood in clouds. Ian rode beside her, purposefully neglecting his cloak and the weather.

  “I don’t understand how you’re cold,” he said. “I can feel the heat of your skin from here. Hells, the snow is melting in your wake.”

  “The fire never feels the flame,” she muttered, her voice muffled under layers of cloth. “It’s not the weather that chills me, though. I owe my discomfort to the calendar as much as to the snow. Strife’s power is in decline. We are on the verge of Cinder’s age.”

  “Of course,” Ian said with a twisted smile. “You’re not cold. You’re just really, really holy.”

  “Shut up.” Elsa paused for a minute, then cast her hood back and fixed Ian with a steely gaze. “Your lips are blue.”

  “I’m fine,” Ian said quickly, suppressing a shiver as a gust of wind howled down the road. “Winter has hardly started. Your thin Suhdrin blood has betrayed you.”

  “I’ve spent more winters in the north than you, boy, and not one of them huddled by the blazing hearth of a duke’s great hall. Speak to me of winter when you have spent a month trekking along the coast from Fogdeep to the Lesser Shieldisles, chasing a gheist.” She shifted under her cloak, adjusting her sword against the saddle. “The ocean waves froze in midcrash, and the mist of our breath froze in our lungs.”

  “Well, part of Tenerran wisdom means knowing to not go out in such weather,” Ian said.

  “Then perhaps part of Suhdrin wisdom means living in a place where the weather isn’t complete shit half the year,” Elsa answered. She folded the cloak back over her head, giving Ian the opportunity to settle his cloak more tightly across his chest. The wind was picking up.

  “I will admit, though, that even for Tener, this is a little early for…” Ian started.

  His words trailed off as a dark wind crossed the road ahead of them, a slice of night dressed in ice. It churned between the trees for a long moment, the growl of its passing echoing through her bones. Elsa threw back her cloak and flared Strife’s blessings. A stream of melted snow ran down her horse and onto the damp ground. Ian winced at the sudden change, then drew his own blade.

  In a breath, the darkness disappeared into the forest. Trees rattled in its wake, knocking snow to the ground in buckets.

  “A little early for gheists,” Ian finished.

  “No,” Elsa answered. “Not a gheist.” She was still, blade in one outstretched hand, her other cupped to the sky. “But certainly a manifestation.”

  “A manifestation of what?” Ian asked.

  “This storm, perhaps. It seems harsh for autumn, doesn’t it? And Gwen was riding the autumn gheist while holding the death god.” Elsa scanned the tree line. “Perhaps they have infected one another.”

  “A blizzard made of death,” Ian muttered. Unconsciously, he drew his cloak tight, shivering. “Yes, that sounds like the kind of thing that happens to us.”

  “You are going to have to get used to dangerous jobs, if you mean to ride with me, Ian Blakley,” Elsa answered. “Stay here. Watch the horses.”

  “Watch the horses against what? The weather?” Ian looked around nervously. “What am I supposed to do if the wind attacks?”

  “Kill it,” she replied. “Or wait for me to get back. A boy like you shouldn’t need lessons in foolish heroism.” Elsa slid from her saddle, laid her cloak across it, and walked forward, arms wide, leaving a trail of muddy ice in her wake. Ian sighed and gathered her horse’s reins.

  “I’m not that young,” he said quietly.

  The vow knight paused where they had seen the apparition. The corona of fire that flickered from her sword snapped in the wind, the flame guttering loudly. Elsa knelt to examine the ground, then turned to look at the forest where the spirit had departed.

  “It feels like an echo,” she said. “The memory of a lesser god. Perhaps a gheist has manifested.”

  “Could it have been Gwen?”

  “If this is an echo of Gwen’s power, then I fear for her soul, and our safety.” She stood, holding a squirming fragment of dark energy in her hand. “Though if she is still holding the death god, there is no telling what may have become of her.” She tossed the fragment into the air, striking it with her burning blade and watching it dissipate with a shriek. Turning, she walked back toward her horse. “I believe we are on the right path—and even if this has nothing to do with the huntress, any gheist powerful enough to cause a ripple of that sort must be dealt with. Quickly.”

  “Well,” Ian said, looking past Elsa and down the road. “You should collect your cloak before you freeze to death.”

  “I’m feeling much better, thank you,” Elsa answered. “A little action was all these old bones needed to feel alive.”

  “No, I mean…” He nodded down the road.

  In the near distance, a wall of churning white was rushing at them, ground to sky. The trees quivered as the squall line passed through them, snow and ice and cutting sleet roaring through the air as the storm rumbled forward. Lightning flickered in the clouds as the blizzard swallowed the horizon.

  “Gods. Damn,” Elsa muttered. She ran to her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders before hoisting herself back into the saddle. Ian hunched down, drawing his cloak tight, gripping it shut with both hands.

  The storm hit them with a roar. The wind nearly snatched the cloak from his fingers. Frost laced its way through his patchy beard, sliding chill spears into his blood. The horses shied away from the wind, murmuring their displeasure.

  “Aren’t you going
to say something about your Tenerran spirit, Houndson?” Elsa shouted over the gale. “Make a joke about what a refreshing breeze this is, or some such shit?” Ian didn’t reply, fighting to keep the cloak around his shoulders, the buckle stubbornly refusing to shut, the fur-lined hood snapping back and forth like a banner. The vow knight drew close, her bulk shielding the boy just enough to let him close the toggle and secure the cloak around him.

  “This is more than winter usually offers,” he said.

  “Yes. A good deal more. We must find shelter.” Elsa’s voice was barely a whisper in the storm. “Do you know where we are? What village may be close, or what lord?”

  “There’s a scrabble of barons and earls on this side of the Fen, before we reach the border of Duke MaeHart. It is impossible to learn their disposition, or their roads.”

  “Impossible, or was it merely too boring for you to manage?” Elsa shouted. Already their cloaks were rimed in frost, and the horses had small piles of snow on their noses. The vow knight squinted into the storm. “No matter. Roads don’t happen naturally. Where there is a road, there is a town, and a road so straight and lean must go somewhere safe. Or at least warm.”

  “We could be days from the nearest town!” Ian yelled back. “We should shelter here. Find a lean among the trees, and pray to the gods for mercy.”

  “This is winter,” Elsa said. “Cinder’s season. The gray lord is not known for mercy. Come on.”

  The pair drove their horses forward, the wind cutting the warmth from their bones and the light from their hearts. Among the clouds, thunder rumbled like a death knell, sounding a dirge for summer.

  * * *

  From atop a storm-wracked elm, its branches groaning under the gale, Aedan sat perched and comfortable. He wrapped a bandage around his hand, staunching the blood. The wound was deep, necessary for a storm of this fury.

  He held up the cobweb-patterned blade. It pulsed with the magic of Gwen’s blood, yearning for the bond that waited on the road below.