The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

“Not many feasts, it seems,” Ian said.

  He and Elsa followed their escorts through a kitchen, the maids bustling through the work of making the next meal. The air was filled with comfortingly normal smells—of bacon, of beans and wood smoke and spilled vinegar. As they passed through, Ian snatched a silver goblet from a shelf and held it up for Elsa to see.

  “Here,” he said, pointing at the face of the goblet. There was a shield etched in the metal. It was a fist gripping a pair of antlers, with stars nestled between the points of the horns. “Halfic. An old house, and loyal to the church.”

  “Very loyal,” she agreed. “If some tragedy has befallen them, it would not sit well with the church.” Ian returned the goblet and they hurried on.

  “Neither would it sit well with my father,” he said. “That might explain the rude reception, if they’ve recognized me.”

  “Then why leave us alive at all?” Elsa asked.

  The next room was close and narrow, a library crowded with books. A separate hearth stood at each end, both burning bright and clean, and a window capped the far wall. Heavy curtains were drawn tight, but still the howling storm sent gusts rippling through. There was a sharp chill in the air, despite the fires. The guards swept aside as they entered, enabling Ian and Elsa to face the lord of the manor.

  The man sat in a heavy chair between the fires, his elbows on a table that was too large for the space. The chair was actually the throne from the great hall, dragged here for some reason. The table was covered in open books and unbound codices, shuffled one atop the other until the whole space looked like an accident. His fingers were stained with ink and blood.

  Ian struggled to recognize their host, and failed. He and Elsa stood still for a long moment, entirely ignored by the man at the table.

  “My lord,” the guard said from the doorway. “Our guests have awoken.”

  “Took bloody long enough,” the man said. He looked up distractedly. “See that they have… oh. Oh, they’re here. Aren’t they?”

  “Yes, we are,” Ian said. He sketched a courtly bow, stepping forward. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ian Blakley, son of Malcolm, heir to the throne of Houndhallow and champion of…”

  “I bloody know who you are. Only reason I let you in at all.” The man stood, blinking rapidly. “Shouldn’t do that, you know. Show up at a man’s gate without a proper introduction, demanding to be let in. This is winter! The gates were closed!”

  “We had little choice,” Ian said. “The blizzard took us unawares. If we hadn’t stumbled across your castle, my companion and I would be dead.”

  “Hm,” the man answered. “Hm. Well, gods will it. What brought you to that road, Ian of Houndhallow? Did your father send you, to beg my help in his fool war against Halverdt? I’ve already sent my answer. Halfic swords stay home! Halfic spears guard these walls. I won’t waste my precious blood.”

  “Lord Halfic,” Ian said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes? Of course? Who did you think I was?”

  “Beg forgiveness,” Ian paused, struggling to remember the name of Halfic’s backwoods holding. Harthal, that was it. “Beg forgiveness, Harthal. Sir Elsa and I were unsure of the state of this castle. We saw no sign of your sigil, and the hearth in our room was damaged.”

  “Hm,” the man grunted. “Winter is a treacherous season. That is what you thought? That I’d been thrown over, and so you came to sound out the new lord of Harthal? So bloody like you hounds, lapping at whichever hand is sweetest!”

  “I am not here on my father’s business, though if I were I would expect better treatment than this!” Ian approached the table, planted his fists among the books and leaned in close to the lord’s face. “Know you nothing of the events of the Fen Gate?”

  “I know of Colm Adair’s heresy,” Halfic said. “I know that your father continues to raise arms against the inquisition’s chosen banner, and I know the god of judges has brought his hand down against Tener for the sins of these two men!” Halfic stood to his full height, and Ian realized the man was easily twice his size, broad and tall and heavy with muscle. “Now his son has come crawling to my door. To beg for spears, or mercy, or simply my approval—I do not know or care. You are here on my mercy, and if you cause trouble I will throw you out of Harthal without a second’s thought. Storm or no storm. Do I make myself clear?”

  “My lord,” Ian began to protest. Elsa grabbed his arm.

  “Very clear, Lord Halfic,” she said, “and may I thank you, on behalf of the church and all its priests, for your faithful service. These are trying times for all of Tenumbra. Good men like you are the hope of all people.”

  Halfic seemed taken aback by this, but he nodded slowly, looking from Ian to Elsa. He seemed to weigh the vow knight before speaking.

  “When the son of a heretic and a vow knight arrive at your door, you must either suspect the heretic of deception, or the knight of heresy,” he said. “But I see you are neither a fool nor a heretic. Return to your chambers.” He flipped closed the book he had been reading and turned to the door. When Ian didn’t move, Halfic took him by the shoulders and guided him forward, waiting until Elsa followed. At the door he stopped and made a show of thinking very carefully.

  “I will see that your weapons and armor are returned to you, vow knight. My mother belonged to the vow. It would honor me greatly if you would say words at her tomb.”

  “The honor would be mine,” Elsa answered. The man nodded deeply.

  “Very well. Pardon my manner, please. I am very busy. The storm has caught us unprepared, and there is much I must do before true winter falls.” He glanced at Ian, wincing slightly. “And forgive my words, Ian Blakley. Your father is a good man, if easily deceived by his faith in others. I was afraid you were coming to chastise me for not joining his idiotic… for not adding my strength to his effort.”

  “I tried to tell you…”

  Halfic waved him to silence. “We can discuss it later. I truly am busy. Go, rest. Your things will be with you soon enough.” He turned and tramped back to his desk. Ian gave Elsa a questioning look, but the vow knight shook her head and led him back into the kitchen. The guards followed at a proper distance.

  “What was that about?” Ian asked with a hint of irritation. “One word from you and he turns into the bashful host.”

  “I think he was startled by our arrival,” Elsa said. “The guards had not warned him, though doubtless there were standing orders to escort us to him, should you wake. He speaks truly. The lord of Harthal is a busy man.”

  “As you say, but it seems very strange to me.”

  “Stranger than you think.” Elsa dipped her head, lowering her voice to barely a whisper. “He changed his tune merely to get rid of us—or at least get rid of me. He didn’t want me to see his books.”

  “Books?” Ian asked.

  “The ones you were too offended to look at, but I saw my fill.” She straightened her back as they entered the vast emptiness of the great hall. The guards marched behind them, their iron shoes echoing loudly. Elsa glanced at Ian. “Let us pray our weapons reach us soon.”

  “Why?” Ian asked.

  “Because Lord Halfic is trying to summon a gheist. Or banish one. Or both.”

  26

  THE HORSES SMELLED it first, getting nervous, sidestepping into the verge whenever their riders loosened the reins. At the base of a familiar hill, Frair Lucas’s borrowed mount refused to go even a step further.

  “What’s their problem?” LaGaere asked angrily. Lucas gave him a sidelong look.

  “I think I know,” he said. “Have your men guard the horses. We’ll have a look on foot.”

  “What about the high inquisitor?” Martin asked.

  “He should come with us,”

  Lucas said. “He should see this.” Lucas, Sacombre, LaGaere, Sir Horne, and Martin Roard all dismounted, leaving their horses and the witch with LaGaere’s men. The hill wasn’t very high, but by the summit, Sacombre was breathing heavi
ly.

  “Out of breath, Tomas?” Lucas asked cheerfully.

  “I am an old man, frair, not accustomed to being paraded through the forests like a prize buck.”

  “You will rest soon enough,” Lucas said. The high inquisitor chuckled.

  When they crested the hill, LaGaere and Roard inhaled sharply. Sir Horne was silent, but something curious danced in her eyes.

  “This is where it all began,” Lucas said. “Long enough ago to be forgotten, though not even a season has passed.”

  The town that spread out below them was a ruin. Those few thatch roofs unclaimed by fire had fallen to neglect, the bare ribs of their staves poking out. The walls were laced with ivy, the front gate hanging jagged like an open wound. A flock of songbirds danced up from the shattered skull of the doma at the village center. They swept low over ash-grimed buildings before disappearing into the encroaching forest.

  Other than the bird song, the city was buried in silence.

  “Gardengerry,” Lucas said. “See what you have wrought, Tomas.”

  “There are always sacrifices,” Sacombre said. “Soldiers assigned to hold a doomed gate. Flanks that can not be rescued.”

  “Children, still on the teat,” Lucas said. “Mothers and wives and grandfathers, waking up for the last time, to hear a forgotten god tearing their front door from its hinges.” Lucas turned to face the high inquisitor. “Priests, celestes, congregants, sworn to the gods, serving no sentence but their faith. Murdered in their doma at your command!”

  “Frair Allaister’s actions were his own,” Sacombre said sharply. “I set him a path. How he traveled that path was his choice, and his to atone.”

  “Give a mad dog a hand to bite, and don’t be surprised if he takes the whole arm,” Lucas said.

  “You had these people murdered?” Sir Horne asked quietly. “Celestial souls, sacrificed to your plan?”

  “Not all of them,” LaGaere said. “We gathered many refugees from Gardengerry on the path north. Some were willing to fight the Tenerrans who had murdered their neighbors. Others simply sought shelter. The rebels killed dozens, and the gheist they summoned murdered hundreds, but most of the residents fled.”

  “In fear of the inquisition,” Lucas said bitterly.

  “Then why haven’t they returned?” Martin asked. “The walls still stand. The well is probably still salvageable, if a priest could be found to bless the font.”

  “Would you return?” Horne asked. “To the place your family died? And not just that, to walls haunted by demons. Imagine the horror of learning that the place you held holy for generations was cursed of the old gods. How could you sleep easily in such a place?”

  “Gods pray that we can,” Lucas said. “We’re staying here tonight.”

  “Are you mad?” LaGaere asked. “Who knows what lurks between those walls?”

  “As Roard said, the well is still clean, and the walls still stand. It will be shelter enough. Whatever haunted this place has gone north.” Lucas tugged at Sacombre’s bonds. “I was there when it died.” He turned began to descend, back the way they had come.

  LaGaere followed angrily, leaving Martin and Sir Horne to stare down at the ruin. The knight turned slowly, taking in the entire vista of untended walls and broken roofs.

  “Is the whole north like this?” Horne asked. “Forgotten demons lurking under the floorboards of our holy places? Whole villages wiped clean from the land? Murderous gods and farmers sowing war and reaping death?”

  “It was a southern priest who raised these demons,” Martin said. “Let’s not forget that.”

  “We can’t lay it all at Sacombre’s feet, nor Halverdt’s,” Horne said. She turned away from Gardengerry, gathering Martin behind her. Behind them, the birds returned to the town, to settle on empty roofs and empty streets.

  * * *

  The courtyard was eerily quiet. This shouldn’t have surprised Martin, but the overgrown common and the gaping mouths of empty homes still unsettled him.

  They walked their reluctant horses to the common, then hobbled Sacombre and the witch, shackling them to the disheveled remains of the iron stocks. LaGaere set his men the task of assembling a picket, then he and Frair Lucas huddled quietly in the shadow of the broken doma.

  “Stay here,” Sir Horne said to Martin. “I’m going to search the city.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Martin said.

  “I’ll be fine. Frair Lucas says the ruins are safe from gheists, and there’s no mortal threat that I fear,” she said. “See to the horses. LaGaere’s men are too busy preparing for an invasion, and the frair has his hands full with the duke.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. I’ll just be looking for food. We lost most of our supplies in the flight from Greenhall, and we’ve a long way to go to Heartsbridge. Lucas doesn’t like to think about it, but now that we’re in Suhdra the gheists will be the least of our problems. Bassion’s army will have emptied the farms south of here. The harvest has already been scarce enough these past few years. There will be no warm welcome for us between here and the Celestial Dome.” She nodded toward their prisoners. “Especially with that pair in tow. We’ll have to keep a low profile. Hunt what we can. Scavenge the rest.”

  “I can help,” Martin said.

  “By staying here, and ensuring the horses are fit to ride tomorrow,” Horne said. She gave Martin’s head a rub, which left the heir of Stormwatch blushing and furious. “Have patience, little Stormwatch. There will be glory enough later.”

  He refused to watch Horne march away, glancing nervously at LaGaere’s men to see if they had observed the exchange. Horne was right, of course. Without spare mounts to switch out, the horses were in a sorry state. The business of seeing them brushed and fed took the rest of the afternoon, and by the time evening fell and the dinner fire was crackling, Martin was exhausted.

  Horne returned some hours after she had left, her hands empty, and she ignored him. The ruins must have already been picked clean, either by bandits or the residents before they fled.

  Later that night, they ate in silence around the fire. What little food they had was hardly satisfying. Only Sacombre seemed to not mind the poor quality of their meal. LaGaere watched him with narrow eyes.

  “This doesn’t bother you?” he asked finally, taking the high inquisitor by surprise. Sacombre looked up as if startled by a predator.

  “Bother me?” he said. “No, not at all. I’ve certainly eaten worse. Mostly in temples.” He smiled. “The faithful of Cinder aren’t known for their culinary skills.”

  “Not the food, damn you,” LaGaere said. “This place. These walls, standing idle in the forest. A whole town left to rot!”

  “It’s little concern of mine. As Frair Lucas said, most of the victims were murdered by Tenerran farmers, looking to atone for some imagined slight, I’m sure. Who were in turn killed themselves, by the very gheists they worshiped.” Sacombre shrugged. “At least they served a greater purpose.”

  “Greater purpose?” Martin asked. “What greater purpose? To provide the excuse for war between Suhdra and Tener?”

  “That honor would fall to the citizens of Tallownere, I believe,” Sacombre said. “Slaughtered by foul Sir Volent, only to be rescued by their heroine, kind Lady Gwen Adair. I really had nothing to do with that.”

  “Like hell. You knew what Halverdt would do if provoked.”

  “Perhaps, but my eyes were elsewhere, on a higher goal.” Sacombre held his palms up, turning his eyes to the rising moon. “Cinder gifted me with certain knowledge, and the wisdom to use it.”

  “Make what excuses you like,” Martin said, “but the fate of Gardengerry is on your soul. It was your servant who unleashed this demon.”

  “If the harvest is bitter, who do you blame?” Sacombre asked, leaning toward Martin. “The man who harvests, or the man who plants?” His chains scraped against the dirt, leaving ruts in the ground. “Or do you blame the seed itself?”

  “S
o poetic, Tomas,” Frair Lucas said. “Who will you blame when you’re on the stand? Are you the reaper, or the sower, or the seed?”

  “Or am I the harvest itself, my friend? Am I simply what comes of bitter soil?”

  Lucas huffed, but didn’t answer.

  LaGaere watched Sacombre with a thoughtful look on his face. Only Sir Horne seemed uninterested in their talk. Which was why, when her head came up sharply and she turned toward their surroundings, Martin noticed.

  “A sound,” she said suddenly. “Somewhere in the night.”

  “The night is full of sounds,” Sacombre said. “You are on Suhdrin soil now, good sir. You needn’t—”

  “She’s right,” Martin said. He stood, dropping his bowl of soggy biscuit to the ground. “I hear it, too.” The rest of the party went quiet. Out among the buildings, something moved. Something large.

  “I thought you said that whatever haunted this place had passed out of it, Frair Lucas,” LaGaere said.

  “That doesn’t prevent something else from taking up residence,” Horne said. “While I was searching the ruins, there was no food—not even a discarded apple left rotting in the street. I thought little of it at the time, but…”

  “But if something else is eating everything, that would explain why there is nothing left,” LaGaere said. “There’s more to the night than gheists. Could be a bear, or a pack of wolves.”

  The sound grew, and a rattling crash echoed through the empty streets. It ended with a crack. The stones of the courtyard shook.

  “Big bears in this part of Suhdra,” Horne muttered.

  “There’s no reason for a gheist to stalk a place that’s been claimed by another,” Lucas said. “Even with the hunter-god gone, the wards the pagans put in place should prevent—”

  He was interrupted by another crack. Some distance away, one of the few intact slate roofs burst open like an egg. A sinuous form arced out of the building like a water snake breaching the surface. Long and thin, with short, clawed feet and a mouth opened wide, showing rows of teeth. A beard flowed from its jaw, and its body was covered in bright scales, each a different color, though the flesh beneath was as dark as shadow.